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Dumb-Bell 
of  Brookjield 


iWfV.  OF  CALIF.  LWRARY,  LOi  ANGILI?^ 


yi^- 


Dumb-Bell 
of  Brookfield 


BY 


John  Taintor  Foote 

Author  of  ''The  Look  of  Eagles" 


Frontispiece 


D.  Appleton  and  Company 

New  York  London 

1917 


f^ 


COPTBIOHT,  1917,  BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
Copyright,  lOU,  1016,  by  the  Phillips  Publishing  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 

A.  a  F. 


2129655 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The  Runt  .... 

3 

II. 

A  Reluctant  Traveler    . 

.       59 

III. 

Dumb-Bell's  Check  . 

.       97 

IV. 

A  Permanent  Intruder   . 

.     143 

V. 

Dumb-Bell's  Guest  . 

.     175 

VI. 

Ordered  On      .        ♦        .        , 

.     221 

THE  RUNT 


THE  RUNT 

THE  king  sat  on  his  throne  and 
blinked  at  the  sunlight  streaming 
through  the  French  window.  His  eyes 
were  pools  of  liquid  amber  filled  with  a 
brooding  dignity,  and  kind  beyond  ex- 
pression. His  throne  was  a  big  leather 
chair,  worn  and  slouchy,  that  stood  in 
the  bay  window  of  the  Brookfield  living- 
room.  He  had  slept  there  all  night,  and 
it  was  time  for  a  maid  to  come,  open  the 
French  window,  and  let  him  out  into 
the  dew-washed  rose  garden. 

The  king  was  old.     He  had  seized  the 

throne  years  before.     He  had  been  put 

on  the  train  one  day,  with  nothing  but  his 

pedigree  and  a  prayer.      He  had  come 

d 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

home,  six  months  later,  champion  of 
champions,  greatest  field  trial  setter  of 
his  time,  lion-hearted  defender  of  the 
honor  of  Brookfield. 

He  never  saw  the  inside  of  the  kennels 
again.  He  had  been  given  humbly  the 
freedom  of  the  house.  After  due  sniff- 
ings at  one  place  and  another  he  had 
taken  the  leather  chair  for  his  own.  From 
then  on  visitors  were  asked  to  sit  else- 
where, if  they  didn't  mind,  because  he 
might  want  his  chair,  and  he  was  Cham- 
pion Brookfield  Roderigo. 

So  now  the  king  sat  on  his  throne,  or 
rather  lay  curled  up  in  it,  with  his  long, 
deep  muzzle  resting  on  his  paws.  At  the 
end  of  that  muzzle  was  a  nose.  A  nose 
uncanny  in  its  swift  certainty.  A  nose 
which  had  allowed  him  to  go  down  wind, 
running  like  fire,  stiffen  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  his  effortless  bounds,  twist  himself 
4 


The  Runt 

in  the  air,  and  light  rigid  at  a  bevy  a  hun- 
dred feet  away.  He  had  done  this  again 
and  again  when  only  a  "derby."  He  had 
done  it  in  the  National  Championship  un- 
til hard-riding  men,  galloping  behind  him, 
had  yelled  like  boys,  and  Judge  Beldon, 
mad  beyond  all  ethics,  had  called  across 
to  another  judge,  "The  dog  never  lived 
that  could  beat  him,  Tom  !'* 

This  was  a  flagrant  breach  of  form. 
It  was  unpardonable  for  a  field  trial 
judge  to  indicate  his  choice  before  the  of- 
ficial vote.  That  night  Judge  Beldon 
apologized  to  the  owner  of  the  pointer. 
Rip  Rap  Messenger,  who  was  running 
with,  or  rather  far  behind,  the  king  at  the 
time. 

But  the  owner  of  the  pointer  only  said: 
"Forget  it.  Judge!  Why,  I  was  as  crazy 
as  any  of  you.  Man,  oh,  man,  ain't  he 
some  dog!" 

5 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

All  this  was  long  ago.  It  was  no  longer 
part  of  the  king's  life,  and  he  was  not 
thinking  of  those  triumphant  days  of  his 
youth.  He  wondered  how  soon  the  maid 
would  come  and  let  him  out.  Once  in  the 
garden  he  might  find  a  toad  under  a  rose- 
bush at  which  to  paw  tentatively.  Per- 
haps  he  would  dig  up  the  piece  of  dog 
cake  he  had  buried  in  the  black  earth  near 
the  sundial.  And  there  was  that  mole  the 
terrier  had  killed,  it  was  certainly  worth 
a  sniff  or  two.  No  doubt  a  gardener  had 
removed  it  by  this  time,  though  .  .  . 
meddlesome  things,  gardeners — an  un- 
guarded bone  was  scarcely  safe  a  mo- 
ment when  one  of  them  was  about! 

Where  was  that  maid?  Why  didn't 
she  come?  Perhaps  he  had  better  take 
a  little  nap.  He  closed  his  eyes.  .  .  . 
He  never  opened  them  again.  The  heart 
that  had  pumped  so  stanch  a  beat  for 
6 


The  Runt 

Brookfield  decided  to  pump  no  more.  A 
shudder  passed  over  the  king's  body  .  .  . 
then  it  was  still. 

The  maid  came  presently  and  called 
his  name.  When  he  didn't  stir  she  went 
to  the  leather  chair  and  looked,  her  eyes 
growing  wide.  She  hurried  from  the 
room  and  up  the  stairs. 

"Mister  Gregory,  sir,"  she  panted  at  a 
door,  "won't  you  come  down,  please? 
Roderigo — he  don't  move.  He  don't 
move  at  all,  sir!" 

She  was  beside  the  chair  again  when 
the  master  of  Brookfield  arrived  in  his 
dressing  gown. 

"He  don't  move — "  she  repeated. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  put  his  hand 
on  the  king's  head.  He  slid  his  other 
hand  under  the  king's  body  between  the 
fore  legs  and  held  it  there  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  stooped,  gathered  a  dangling 
7 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

paw,  and  rubbed  the  raspy  pad  of  it 
against  his  cheek. 

"No.  He  won't  move — any  more,"  he 
said.  "Ask  Mrs.  Gregory  to  come  down." 

When  the  mistress  of  Brookfield  came, 
she  kneeled  before  the  king  in  a  patch  of 
the  streaming  sunlight  at  which  he  had 
bhnked  early  that  morning.  She  kneeled 
a  long  time,  twisting  one  of  the  king's 
soft  ears  between  her  fingers. 

"He  liked  to  have  me  do  that,"  she 
said,  looking  up. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  nodded. 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  bent  until 
her  lips  were  close  to  the  ear  she  had  been 
stroking. 

"Old  lover  .  .  .  old  lover!"  she  whis- 
pered. Then  she  got  up  suddenly  and 
went  out  into  the  rose  garden. 

And  so  there  was  a  chair  which  no  one 
ever  sat  in  standing  in  the  bay  window 
8 


The  Runt 

of  the  living-room.  And  it  was  under- 
stood that  the  chair  would  remain  empty 
until  a  dog  was  bom  at  Brookfield  who 
could  lie  in  it  without  shame. 

Highland  Lassie  was  in  disgrace.  Her 
field  trial  record  was  forgotten.  She  had 
brought  three  puppies  into  the  world  and 
had  smothered  two  of  them  before  they 
were  six  hours  old. 

"An'  to  think,"  wailed  Peter,  head  ken- 
nel man  at  Brookfield,  "the  'ussy's  went 
an'  rolled  on  the  only  Roderigo  puppies 
this  world'U  ever  see  again!  Look  what 
she's  got  left — one  pup,  an'  'im  the  runt !" 
He  poked  the  pinky-white  atom  with  a 
stumpy  forefinger,  and  Highland  Lassie 
cuddled  the  puppy  hastily  to  her  side. 

Leona,  the  big  blond  waitress,  removed 
a  straw  from  Peter's  coat  and  allowed  her 
hand  to  linger  on  his  sleeve. 
2  9 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

"Are  you  not  to  your  breakfast  com- 
ing?" she  asked. 

But  Peter  had  forgotten  for  the  time 
that  her  eyes  were  blue,  that  her  bosom 
was  deep,  and  that  she  looked  like  gold 
and  milk  and  roses. 

"Breakfust?"  he  snorted.  "An'  what 
do  I  care  about  breakfust?  'Aven't  I 
just  told  you  she's  gone  an'  killed  two 
Roderigo  pups,  an'  'im  layin'  out  there 
in  the  orchard?" 

Leona  gave  a  gentle  tug  at  his  sleeve. 

"Always  more  puppies  there  will  be," 
she  said,  and  her  words  were  like  the  notes 
of  a  flute. 

Peter  straightened  up  and  glared  at 
her. 

"Always  more  puppies  there  will  be!" 
he  repeated  with  dreadful  scorn.  "You 
go  back  to  the  'ouse!" 

Leona  departed  with  a  quivering  lip, 
10 


The  Runt 

to  have  her  statement  swiftly  verified. 
That  very  day  Black-Eyed  Susan  became 
the  mother  of  seven,  of  whom  Dan  Gath, 
winner  of  the  Manitoba  All  Age,  was  the 
indifferent  father. 

"A  fine  litter  by  a  good  yomig  sire!" 
said  Peter.  "Brookfield  ain't  done  yet. 
'Ow's  that  for  a  grand  pup — the  second 
one  there?  'E'll  be  a  movin'  picture,  you 
'ear  me!" 

"Maybe  he'll  be  champion,"  suggested 
a  kennel  boy,  hopefully. 

"Champion!"  said  Peter.  "So'll  your 
grandmother.  'Ere,  put  some  fresh 
straw  in  that  corner  an'  don't  you 
bother  the  bitch  whilst  you're  doin'  it, 
neither." 

But  when   the  boy  had   gone   Peter 
filled  his  pipe  and  stared  thoughtfully  at 
Black-Eyed  Susan,  her  eyes  still  fever 
bright  from  birth  pangs. 
11 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

"  'E  might  at  that,  old  gel,"  said  Peter 
softly.    "  'E  might  at  that." 

Four  months  later  the  second  puppy 
in  the  row  of  seven  had  grown  into  a 
thing  of  beauty  that  made  you  gasp  when 
you  saw  him.  From  his  proudly  chiseled 
head  to  the  glistening  plume  of  his  tail  he 
was  a  triumph. 

"The  grandest  pup  we've  ever  bred  at 
Brookfieldl"  said  Peter.  "For  looks, 
that  is,"  he  added,  glancing  out  toward 
the  orchard.    "Only  for  looks." 

Highland  Lassie's  puppy  grew  also. 
He  lived  in  a  land  of  plenty  unshared  by 
crowding  brothers  and  sisters.  He  did 
not  dine  in  frantic  haste,  but  deliberately 
and  at  his  ease,  his  soft-eyed  mother 
watching. 

He  was  seldom  disturbed  by  callers. 
Even  the  abundance  he  received  failed 
to  give  him  size.  He  could  add  nothing, 
12 


The  Runt 

therefore,  to  the  honor  of  Brookfield. 
He  could  only  dim,  a  little,  the  glory 
of  his  sire — and  so  they  let  him 
alone. 

Then  weaning  time  came,  and  his 
mother  neglected  him  more  and  more. 
At  last  she  gave  him  up  altogether,  and 
he  was  left  to  his  own  devices. 

He  tried  hard  to  make  the  time  pass. 
A  sparrow  lighting  in  his  runway  was  a 
great  event.  He  would  creep  toward  it, 
and  at  the  proper  distance  would  halt  and 
stand  rigid  until  the  sparrow  flew  away. 
Sometimes  the  sparrow  would  fly  to  a 
wire  above  the  kennel  and  make  a  shadow 
on  the  ground.  When  this  happened  he 
pointed  the  shadow  very  carefully  until 
it,  too,  was  gone.  Always  he  wished  to 
pounce  upon  the  sparrow,  or  its  shadow; 
but  he  was  a  son  of  Roderigo — ^the  great 
Roderigo  who  never  flushed  a  bird — and 

la 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

so  he  held  his  point,  with  no  one  there 
to  see. 

Sparrows  were  few,  however.  They  sel- 
dom came  to  his  yard.  In  the  long  hours 
between  their  visits  he  was  lonesome.  He 
grew  to  have  a  wistful  expression,  and  a 
grin  that  went  to  the  heart.  He  seemed 
to  be  grinning  at  himself.  The  last  son  of 
Roderigo  was  a  runt!  It  was  a  joke,  a 
grim  joke,  and  he  grinned  at  it. 

When  winter  withdrew  at  last  and 
spring  marched  over  the  hills  to  Brook- 
field,  a  great  washing  descended  upon  the 
kennels  and  no  one  escaped. 

Highland  Lassie's  puppy  was  smitten 
with  the  rest.  He  was  taken  by  a  ken- 
nel boy  to  the  washroom  and  there  he 
suffered  in  silence.  The  bath  brought 
out  his  markings  clearly,  and  after  a 
casual  glance  at  him  Peter  bent  over  and 
examined  his  left  side. 
14 


The  Runt 

"Now  ain't  that  a  curious  mark?"  he 
said.  "It  might  *ave  been  painted  on 
'im,  it's  that  perfect.  It's  like  one  of 
them  things  the  strong  man  'olds  up  in 
the  circus — I  forget  what  yoii  call  'em. 
'E's  the  runt,  by  the  old  dog  out  of  the 
Lassie  bitch,  ain't  'e?" 

"Yep,"  said  the  kennel  boy.  "He's  all 
alone  in  No.  9  runway." 

"You  'aven't  growed  much,  'ave  you?" 
said  Peter. 

The  wee  son  of  Roderigo,  his  eyes  still 
smarting  from  carbolic  soap,  looked  up 
at  Peter  and  grinned. 

Peter  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"Bli'  me!"  he  said.  "The  beggar 
knows.  .  .  ,  Not  much  doin'  down  there 
in  No.  9,  is  there?  'Ow'd  you  like  to 
see  the  world  for  a  while?" 

Once  more  the  puppy  grinned  up  at 
him. 

15 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

"All  right,"  said  Peter.  "I'U  come  an' 
get  you  when  I'm  through." 

An  hour  later  Peter  opened  the  gate  of 
runway  No.  9. 

"Come  on  out,  Runt!"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. And  the  runt,  for  that,  it  seemed, 
was  to  be  his  name,  came  out.  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  dazed  by  sudden  freedom, 
then  sped  like  an  arrow  far  across  the 
lawn.     Peter's  eyes  lighted. 

"  'E  can  move!"  he  said.  Then  his  face 
fell.  "But  what'U  that  get  him  ?"  he  mut- 
tered. "  'E  couldn't  step  over  a  lead 
pencil!'* 

Each  morning  from  then  on  the  runt 
was  let  out  to  follow  Peter  about  the 
place.  Peter  was  in  a  cheerful  mood 
these  days.  The  master  and  mistress  of 
Brookfield  would  soon  return  from  Flor- 
ida, and  he  was  anticipating  a  triumph. 
"Won't  the  missus  squeal  when  she  sees 
16 


The  Runt 

'imi'*  he  thought,  as  he  brushed  the  shin- 
ing coat  of  the  Dan  Gath  puppy.  "Eh, 
Runt?"  he  said  aloud.  And  the  runt, 
who  had  been  gravely  watching,  grinned. 

"I  wish  you'd  quit  thatl"  Peter  told 
him.     "It  gives  me  the  creeps  1" 

When  at  last  the  great  day  came,  Peter 
scorned  delay.  The  mistress  of  Brook- 
field  was  still  in  her  hat  and  gloves  when 
she  heard  that  he  was  waiting  in  the  rose 
garden. 

"What  does  he  want?"  she  asked.  "IVe 
hardly  caught  my  breath!" 

She  was  told  that  he  had  something  to 
show  her. 

"Oh !"  she  said,  and  went  to  the  terrace 
that  looked  down  into  the  garden. 

Then  Peter  had  his  triumph.     He  was 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  in  the 
sunshine,   and  by  his  side  was  a  living 
marvel,  new  washed  and  glistening. 
IT 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  stared, 
breathless  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  Peter!"  she  gasped.  "He's  a 
wonder  dog!     Bring  him  inside!" 

"Yes,  mem,"  said  Peter,  beaming. 

"Bring  him  to  the  living-room,  Peter. 
Mr.  Gregory's  in  there!" 

She  turned  to  the  door,  failing  to  see 
that  other  who  had  followed  Peter  un- 
certainly into  the  rose  garden.  She  was 
excited  to  begin  with,  and  he  was  very 
small.  Also,  he  felt  that  he  did  not  be- 
long in  the  sunshine  beside  the  wonder 
dog;  so  he  had  hidden  himself  behind  a 
rosebush  and  watched  her  through  the 
leaves. 

When  they  went  into  the  house  and 
left  him,  he  crept  up  the  steps,  crossed 
the  terrace,  and  halted  at  the  open  door. 
.  .  .  Peter  had  gone  in  here  with  the 
pretty  lady,  and  it  was  his  habit  to  fol- 
18 


The  Runt 

low  Peter.  He  put  a  timid  forepaw 
across  the  threshold — nothing  happened. 
He  tried  the  other  paw — still  nothing 
happened.  He  caught  the  scent  of  Peter 
now,  so  slowly  and  with  caution  he  took 
up  the  trail. 

Presently  he  came  to  a  big  room,  and 
saw  Peter  and  the  pretty  lady  and  a  tall 
man  looking  at  the  wonder  dog.  He 
wished  to  keep  out  of  sight  until  Peter 
was  ready  to  go.  The  recess  of  the  bay 
window  seemed  an  excellent  retreat  and 
he  slipped  into  it.  A  doggy  smell  came 
to  him  as  he  did  so.  He  advanced  and 
found  a  huge  chair  with  bulging  arms 
and   a  well-hollowed   seat. 

He  loved  the  chair  at  sight.  It  seemed 
so  friendly  and  safe.  It  seemed  to  hold 
out  its  arms  to  him  in  welcome.  Why, 
it  actually  seemed  glad  to  see  him  I 
Perhaps  it  didn't  know  that  he  was  a 
19 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

runt.  .  •  »  He  curled  down  into  its  soft 
hollow  with  a  deep  sigh  of  content- 
ment. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  was  still  star- 
ing at  the  wonder  dog. 

"How  did  you  do  it,  Peter?"  he  said 
at  last.     "He's  too  good  to  be  true!" 

"'E'll  be  true,"  said  Peter,  "if 
breedin'U  do  it.  'E*s  by  Dan  Gath,  out 
of  Black-Eyed  Susan.  You  get  one 
like  'im  out  of  a  thousand  matin's — 
maybe." 

"He's  handsome  enough,"  said  the 
master  of  Brookfield.  "But — what  will 
he  do  in  the  field?" 

"Listen,"  said  Peter;  "I've  'ad  'im  on 
larks  a  time  or  two,  an'  I'm  tellin'  you 
now,  we  never  bred  a  faster,  wider,  'igher- 
'eaded  goin'  pup  .  .  .  but  one."  He 
glanced  toward  the  leather  chair,  and  a 
look  of  bewilderment  came  into  his  face, 
20 


The  Runt 

which  changed  to  one  of  horror.  '"Eavens 
above!"  he  said.    "Look  there  1" 

They  followed  his  gaze,  conscious  for 
the  first  time  of  a  strange  sound  which 
rose  and  fell  steadily  in  the  bay  window. 

Curled  deep  in  Roderigo's  chair  was 
the  runt,  and,  as  Peter  told  the  kennel 
men  afterward,  "  'E  was  snorin*  that  'eavy 
you  could  'ear  'im  all  through  the  room." 

"And  what  the  devil  is  that?"  said  the 
master  of  Brookfield,  after  a  stunned 
silence. 

"The  runt  of  the  last  litter  by  the  old 
dog,"  said  Peter.    "'E  just  come  along." 

"Yes — I  see  he  did,"  said  the  master 
of  Brookfield.  "Come  here,  you!"  he 
called. 

The  runt  opened  one  eye,  twitched  his 
tail  sleepily,  and  closed  the  eye  again. 
That  was  all. 

A  whip  hung  in  the  bay  window.  The 
21 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

terrier  who  lived  at  the  house  could  have 
told  the  runt  what  that  whip  was  for.  In 
a  moment  the  tall  man  stood  above  him. 

"Get  down  out  of  that!"  he  said,  and 
flicked  the  whip  over  the  chair. 

The  runt  was  frightened.  The  big 
chair  was  his  only  friend,  it  seemed.  He 
shrank  deeper  into  it  as  the  whip  was 
raised  above  him. 

"Don't!  Please,  Jim!"  said  the  mis- 
tress of  Brookfield.  "He's  so  little.  He'll 
learn  soon  enough."  She  came  and  took 
the  runt  by  his  scruff.  "Get  down,  little 
mannie,"  she  said,  "this  place  isn't  for 
you." 

"I  'ope  not!"  said  Peter. 

"Never  mind,  Peter,"  she  said.  "It 
isn't  his  fault  that  he's  little,  and  that 
was  his  daddy's  chair.  .  .  .  Oh,  Jim! 
See  that  dumb-bell  on  his  side!  Look! 
It's  perfect!" 

22 


The  Runt 

"That's  too  bad!"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield,  examining  the  mark. 

"Why  too  bad?"  asked  Mrs.  Gregory. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  winked  at 
Peter. 

"We'll  never  be  able  to  lose  him,"  he 
explained.  "Will  we?"  he  said  to  the 
runt,  and  the  runt  looked  up  and  grinned. 

Mrs.  Gregory  gave  a  quick  little  gasp. 

"I  hate  such  jokes!"  she  said.  "Is  he 
registered,  Peter?" 

"No,  mem,"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  register  him  as  Brookfield 
Dumb-Bell — and  give  him  every  chance." 
Suddenly  she  stepped  close  to  the  runt. 
"You  two  may  have  the  beauty  there," 
she  flashed;  "and  his  missy  will  look  after 
himr 

"Why,  Chief!"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield. 

"I  don't  care!"  she  said.  "He's  little 
23 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

— and  I  think  he  knows  it — and  it  isn't 
his  fault!'*  Then  she  went  out  of  the 
room. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  rubbed  his 
chin  thoughtfully. 

"Now  what  did  we  do,  Peter?"  he 
asked. 

It  was  a  hot  summer  that  year.  Day 
after  day  the  sun  glared  down  at  Brook- 
field,  and  the  runt  panted  as  he  followed 
Peter.  Often  when  visitors  arrived  and 
Peter  was  told  to  bring  the  wonder  dog 
to  the  house  the  runt  came  along. 

He  was  always  embarrassed  during 
these  visits.  He  felt  smaller  than  ever  in 
the  stately  rooms  of  the  big  house.  But 
he  remembered  his  friend  the  chair,  and 
while  the  visitors  were  exclaiming  over 
the  wonder  dog  he  would  slip  away  quietly 
and  crawl  into  it. 

He  was  whipped  for  this  several  times, 
24 


The  Runt 

»— — —— i^i— ill— ■— — ^— i— ■      W^     ■■  l^»^— — ^M^— — —— — ^1^— 

but  he  never  seemed  to  learn;  so  at  last 
he  was  put  back  in  runway  No.  9,  where 
there  were  no  chairs  at  all,  only  loneliness 
and  an  occasional  sparrow. 

One  day  the  master  of  Brookfield  vis- 
ited the  kennels. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  "ship  the  Dan  Gath 
puppy  to  Ramsey,  in  Tennessee.  Ship 
him  tomorrow  night.  Wire  Ramsey. 
.  .  .  Hot,  isn't  it?" 

"What  about  'im?"  said  Peter,  jerking 
his  thumb  toward  a  runway. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  master 
of  Brookfield.  Then  he  saw  the  occupant 
of  No.  9  staring  wistfully  out  at  Peter. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "you  break  him  this  fall 
for  a  shooting  dog.  He  oiight  to  have  a 
nose  on  him." 

As  Peter  was  going  over  a  dog  crate 
next  day,  he  looked  up  to  find  the  mis- 
tress of  Brookfield  watching  him. 
3  25 


Dumb  'hell  of  Brookjield 

"Good  morning,  Peter,"  she  said. 
"What's  that  crate  for?" 

"I'm  shippin'  the  Dan  Gath  pup  away 
tonight,  mem,"  said  Peter.  "'E's  to  'ave 
a  chance  at  the  trials." 

"Why  have  you  brought  out  only  one 
crate?"  asked  the  mistress  of  Brookfield. 

"I'm  only  shippin'  one  dog,"  said  Peter, 
tapping  away  with  his  hammer. 

"Ah!"  said  she.  "And  when  does  the 
runt  goV^ 

"'E  don't  go,"  said  Peter.  "I'm  to 
break  'im  myself — for  a  shootin'  dog." 

"Peter!"  said  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field. 

"Yes,  mem,"  j^id  Peter  uneasily. 

"Get  out  another  crate,  please."  And 
when  two  crates  stood  side  by  side,  the 
mistress  of  Brookfield  touched  one  of 
them  with  her  finger  tips. 

"The  little  chap,"  she  said,  "goes  in  this 
26 


The  Runt 

crate  tonight.  Do  you  understand  me, 
Peter?" 

"Yes,  mem,"  said  Peter. 

"And,  Peter — tell  Ramsey  to  send  the 
training  bills  to  me/* 

"Yes,  mem,"  said  Peter. 

Two  weeks  later  the  mails  brought  a 
letter  to  Brookfield.  It  was  addressed  to 
Peter,  and  this  is  how  it  ran: 

EmerymUe^  Tennessee,  R.  R,  No.  4 

FaiEND  Peter:  ^  '     ' 

I  take  shame  in  telling  you  the  small  pup  is 
lost.  He  found  a  bevy  the  first  day  I  took  him 
out,  chased  when  they  flushed,  and  I  ain't  seen 
him  since.  I've  hunted  the  country  over  and 
offered  big  rewards.  Tell  Mrs.  Gregory,  and 
say  a  good  word  for  me.  The  big  pup  is  doing 
fine.  I  like  every  move  he  makes.  I'll  keep  on 
looking  for  the  little  pup,  and  that's   all  at 

"  *  Yours  in  friendship, 

W.  Ramsey. 
27 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

Peter  sat  on  a  sawhorse  and  slowly 
read  his  letter.  He  moved  to  an  over- 
turned grindstone,  seeking  a  better  light, 
and  read  it  again.  He  looked  up  toward 
the  house,  a  black  pile  against  the  setting 
sun,  and  whistled  softly. 

"'Ell  will  be  to  pay  shortly,"  he  mut- 
tered, and  moved  reluctantly  to  his  doom. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  had  been  to 
the  cattle  barns  to  watch  the  milking. 
When  he  returned  he  found  that  Peter 
was  something  of  a  prophet.  He  found 
his  lady  bathed  in  tears,  Peter  standing 
miserably  before  her,  and  maids  running 
in  all  directions. 

"I'm  going  to  Tennessee  tonight!"  she 
gasped.     "Read  that!" 

"But,  Chief!"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
field when  he  had  read  the  letter.  "You 
couldn't  possibly  do  any  good  down  there. 
If  Ramsey,  who  knows  every  foot  of  the 
28 


The  Runt 

country,  can't  find  him,  how  can  you  ex- 
pect to?" 

"I'll  send  down  a  motor  and  ride  all 
day,"  she  told  him.  "You  can  come  too 
— and  Peter — and  Felix  to  drive  .  .  ." 

"Is  that  all?"  he  said.  "We'll  be  quite 
a  party.  It's  out  of  the  question,  my 
dear.  .  .-.  I'll  tell  Ramsey  to  double  the 
reward  and  do  everything  possible.  .  .  . 
You'll  make  yourself  sick  if  you  don't 
stop  crying!" 

"We  have  lost  him,  you  see!  In  spite 
of  your  horrid  joke  about  it.  Now  I  hope 
you  and  Peter  are  satisfied!  I'll  ^vrite  to 
Ramsey!"  she  added  ominously.  "Oh,  I'll 
write  to  Mm!" 

When  W.  Ramsey,  Esq.,  received  a 
letter  a  few  days  later  he  whistled  over 
it  much  as  Peter  had  whistled  over 
his. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  quit  trainin',"  he 
29 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

muttered,  "an'  go  to  pup  huntin'  for  a 
perfessioni" 

And  until  he  went  West  with  his 
"string,"  the  redoubtable  Bill  Ramsey, 
high-priced  specialist  in  the  training  and 
handling  of  field  trial  setters,  turned  his 
field  work  and  yard-breaking  over  to  an 
assistant,  and  scoured  the  country  day 
after  day.  But  no  one  had  seen  a  "real 
small  setter  with  a  funny  mark  on  his 
side,"  and  he  never  found  a  trace  of  what 
he  sought. 

Brookfield  Beau  Brummell  No.  43721 
F.  D.  S.  B.,  for  such  was  now  the  won- 
der dog's  official  title,  was  taken  to  a 
country  where  he  could  go  far,  and  fast, 
and  wide. 

In  the  cramped  valleys  and  thicket- 
rimmed  fields  of  the  East,  bobwhite  lives 
close  to  cover,  and  field  trial  dogs  are  edu- 
30 


The  Runt 

cated  in  the  land  of  the  prairie  chicken, 
where  their  handlers  can  keep  them  in 
sight  for  mile  after  level  mile. 

The  Beau  was  put  down  one  morning 
with  the  veteran  Rappahannock  as  guide, 
counselor,  and  friend.  The  sun  was  be- 
ginning to  climb  the  eastern  side  of  the 
huge  blue  void  which  domed  an  ocean  of 
grass. 

"Hi,  yah!  Get  away!"  yelled  Ramsey. 
Rappahannock,  free  of  the  leash,  shot 
over  a  gentle  rise  and  was  gone.  He  had 
eaten  up  a  good  half-mile  of  country  when 
the  frostbitten  grass  began  to  whisper 
just  behind  him.  He  flattened  out  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  shake  off  the  whisper, 
but  the  whisper  grew  to  the  soft  pad,  pad 
of  flying  feet,  as  the  Beau,  moving  like 
oil,  flowed  past. 

Ramsey  lowered  his  field  glasses  and 
smiled. 

81 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

"Look  out  for  that  one,  Mike!"  he 
called  to  his  assistant.  "They've  bred  an- 
other bird  dog  at  Brookfieldl" 

As  time  went  on  and  the  Beau  devel- 
oped into  a  prodigy  of  speed,  range,  and 
nose,  Peter  went  about  his  work  with  a 
far-away  look  in  his  eyes.  His  body  was 
at  Brookfield,  his  spirit  in  Manitoba. 
The  Beau  would  make  his  first  start  in 
the  great  Canadian  stake,  and —  "They 
can't  beat  him!"  was  the  word  that  came 
from  Ramsey. 

On  the  day  the  stake  was  run  Peter 
sat  on  the  grindstone  and  whittled.  He 
spoke  no  word  to  anyone.  Late  in  the 
evening  the  telephone  bell  rang  in  the 
kennels,  but  Peter  never  stirred.  A  ken- 
nel boy  approached  him  timidly. 

"They  want  you  up  to  the  house,"  said 
the  boy;  and  Peter  closed  his  knife  and 
rose. 

82 


The  Runt 

He  found  the  mistress  of  Brookfield  in 
the  living-room.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  her  eyes  like  stars.  She  was 
dancing  about  the  master  of  Brookfield 
with  a  fluttering  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"Peterr  she  said,  "Oh,  Peter!     See 
what  our  hoy's  done!" 
'    Peter  read  the  telegram,  then  looked 
at  the  master  of  Brookfield  through  half 
shut  lids. 

"If  they  don't  watch  'im  'e'U  likely  take 
the  National,"  he  said. 

"It's  possible,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.     "Yes,  it's  possible." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory. 
"Didn't  you  know  that?  He's  to  be  cham- 
pion. .  .  .  Outclassed  his  field!"  she  sang. 
"Did  you  read  that,  Peter?  Read  it 
again." 

This  was  only  the  beginning.  The  Beau 
swept  through  field  trial  after  field  trial, 
33 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

piling  victory  upon  victory.  He  won 
again  in  Canada.  He  came  nearer  home, 
into  Illinois,  to  take  the  Independent  All 
Age  from  the  best  dogs  in  the  land.  He 
went  down  into  Georgia,  and  left  his  field 
gasping  behind  him  in  the  select  Conti- 
nental. He  won  "off  by  himself,"  as 
Ramsey  said,  in  the  Eastern  Subscription 
against  twenty-five  starters,  and  "every 
dog  worth  a  million  dollars!" 

He  was  certain  to  take  the  National. 
No  other  dog  could  stand  his  pace  in  the 
three-hour  running  of  the  Championship. 
Rival  handlers  conceded  this,  and  Black- 
Eyed  Susan  came  into  her  own. 

"Susan  is  trying  not  to  look  down  on 
the  rest  of  us,  Peter,"  explained  the  mis- 
tress of  Brookfield. 

Peter  watched  Black-Eyed  Susan  par- 
take of  crackers  and  cream  languidly,  and 
from  a  silver  spoon 

34 


The  Runt 

"I  can't  say  as  'ow  you're  'elpin'  'er 
much,"  he  said. 

Then  suddenly  llamsey  was  smitten 
with  inflammatory  rheumatism,  and  the 
Beau  was  turned  over  to  Scott  Benson, 
who  would  handle  him  in  his  other  en- 
gagements. 

"Don't  worry,"  Peter  told  the  master 
of  Brookfield.  "Scott's  a  good  'andler. 
It's  all  over,  anyway,  but  the  United 
States  and  the  Championship.  ,  .  ,  Are 
you  goin'  down?" 

"To  the  National?  Why,  yes,"  said  the 
master  of  Brookfield.  He  caught  a  wist- 
ful look  in  Peter's  eyes.  "Would  you 
care  to  go?"  he  asked. 

Peter  bent  over  and  picked  up  a  willow 
twig  for  whittling  purposes. 

"Why,  I  expect  the  boys  could  look 
after  things  here  for  a  day  or  two,"  he 
said. 

35 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

The  United  States  All  Age  was  the 
last  big  stake  before  the  Champion- 
ship. On  the  morning  after  it  was  run, 
Peter  was  whistling  as  he  sprinkled  the 
whelping  shed  with  disinfectant.  Foot- 
steps crunched  on  the  gravel  outside  and 
he  stepped  to  the  door.  The  master  of 
Brookfield  stood  there  with  a  newspaper 
in  his  hand, 

"He  was  beaten,  Peter,"  he  said. 

"Nor  said  Peter.  And  after  a  si- 
lence— "What  beat  'im?" 

"Little  Sam,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield. 

"An'  who  is  Little  Sam?"  asked 
Peter. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.  "I  never  heard  of  him  be- 
fore. Our  dog  was  second.  Here  I  Read 
it  yourself." 

The  dispatch  was  short:' 
36 


The  Runt 

Grand  Junction,  Terni.,  Jan.  8. 
In  the  All  Age  stake  of  the  United  States 
Field  Trial  Club,  Little  Sam,  lemon  and  white 
setter,  handled  by  C.  E.  Todd,  was  first.  Brook- 
field  Beau  Brummell,  black,  white,  and  ticked 
setter,  handled  by  Scott  Benson,  was  second. 
Tliirty-two  starters. 

"C.  E.  Todd!"  said  Peter.  "Why, 
that's  Old  Man  Todd — 'e's  eighty  years 
old  if  'e's  a  day  I  What's  'e  doin'  back  in 
the  game?" 

"Don't  ask  me  I"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.  "He's  back,  it  would  seem, 
and  he's  brought  a  dog." 

"Do  you  think  'e'll  start  *im  m  the  Na- 
tional?" Peter  inquired. 

"I  presume  so,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.  "You're  to  bring  the  Beau 
home,  Peter — if  he  wins." 

"An'  if  'e  don't— win?"  asked  Peter. 

"Why,  then,"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
37 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

field,  *'he  can  stay  in  training  and  try 
again  next  year." 

Three  days  later  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field  stood  with  Black-Eyed  Susan  in  the 
high  stone  arch  of  the  front  entrance. 
"You're  to  bring  home  the  champion, 
Peter!"  she  called.  "Don't  fail  us,  will 
you? — Susy  and  me?  There's  some  light 
underwear  in  the  black  bag,  Jim;  it  may 
be  warm  in  Tennessee.  Good-by  .  .  . 
Good-by,  Peter.  ...  Your  shaving 
things  are  in  the  small  bag,  Jim!  Peter 
— Peter!  Don't  forget  Susy  and  me — 
we'll  be  waiting!" 

"No,  mem,"  said  Peter  stoutly.  But 
as  he  watched  the  landscape  slide  steadily 
northward  the  ties  clicked  a  fearsome  re- 
frain: "Little  Samr  they  said,  "Little 
Sam!" 

Grand  Junction  was  reached  at  last. 
Scott  Benson  was  the  first  to  greet 
88 


The  Runt 

them  at  the  packed  and  roaring  hotel. 

"Well,"  said  the  master  of  Brookfield, 
"how  does  it  look?" 

The  trainer  shook  his  head. 

"Bad,  Mr.  Gregory,"  he  said.  "WeVe 
got  an  awful  dog  to  beat." 

"You  mean  the  dog  that  old  Todd's 
got?"  said  Peter. 

"Yes,"  said  Scott.  "That's  what  I 
mean — but  he  ain't  a  dog." 

"What  is  'e,  then?"  asked  Peter. 

"He's  a  flyin'  machine,  with  a  tele- 
scope nose.  You  got  a  grand  dog,  Mr. 
Gregory,  a  grand  dog.  A  gamer  dog 
never  lived — he'll  try  all  the  way;  but 
this  here  dog  that  old  fool's  got  a 
hold  of  somehow  ain't  human.  In  three 
hours  he'll  find  all  the  quail  in  the 
state!" 

"What's  'e  look  like,  an'  'ow's  'e  bred?" 
Peter  inquired. 

39 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

"Get  ready  to  laugh,"  said  Scott.  "I 
forgot  to  tell  you.  His  breedin's  un- 
known, an'  he  ain't  as  big  as  a  stud 
beagle." 

That  evening  was  a  trial.  Beau  Brum- 
mell  seemed  forgotten.  The  hotel  lobby 
echoed  with  the  name  of  Little  Sam. 

"He  must  be  a  great  dog,"  smiled  the 
master  of  Brookfield.  "I'll  enjoy  seeing 
him  run.  I  think  I'll  turn  in  now.  Major, 
if  you'll  excuse  me.  I'm  a  little  tired 
from  the  trip." 

Peter  sat  up  longer,  half  listening  to 
the  babble  about  him.  At  last  he  became 
conscious  of  a  hissing  for  silence  as  the 
secretary  climbed  to  a  table  top  and  began 
to  read  the  drawings  for  the  National. 

"Belwin  with  Dan's  Lady!"  read  the 
secretary.  "Opal  Jane  with  Rappahan- 
nock I  Bingo  with  Prince  Rodney!"  and 
so  the  starters  in  the  Championship  were 
40 


The  Runt 

paired.  At  last,  at  the  very  end,  the  sec- 
retary paused  an  instant  and  smiled 
grimly.  "Brookfield  Beau  Brummell  with 
Little  Sam  I"  he  read,  and  there  was  a 
roar  that  shook  the  hotel. 

Chuck  Sellers  leaped  upon  Peter  and 
took  him  to  his  bosom. 

"Stick  around,  Pete!"  he  yelled.  "Stick 
around  fur  the  big  showl" 

Peter  shoved  him  aside. 

"I'm  goin'  to  bed,"  he  growled.  "I 
'ope  I  get  a  decent  'oss  tomorrow." 

But  fate  had  a  blow  in  store  for  Peter. 
In  the  scramble  for  mounts  next  morn- 
ing, a  big  gray  mule  with  a  will  of  his 
own  was  "wished  on  him"  as  Chuck  Sel- 
lers put  it,  and  he  devoted  the  next  few 
hours  to  equestrianship.  By  the  time  the 
second  brace  was  cast  off  he  had  con- 
quered, and  he  saw  good  old  Rappahan- 
nock win  on  his  courage  from  dashing 
4  41 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

Opal  Jane,  who  failed  to  last  the  three 
hot  hours  and  was  running  slower  and 
slower,  with  a  dull  nose,  when  they  took 
her  up. 

The  Championship  was  run  off  smooth- 
ly. Brace  after  brace  was  put  down, 
until  at  last  came  Thursday  morning  and 
the  pair  for  which  they  waited. 

Peter  had  been  having  an  argument 
with  his  mount,  who  hated  to  start  in  for 
the  day.  When  it  was  settled  he  looked 
up  to  see  an  old  man  standing  ahead  of 
the  judges,  with  a  lemon  and  white  setter 
who  tugged  and  tugged  to  be  gone.  He 
was  small  beyond  belief,  this  setter,  so 
small  that  Peter  rubbed  his  eyes.  Then 
he  rode  down  the  line  of  horsemen  until 
he  found  Chuck  Sellers. 

"Don't  tell  me  that's  'im.  Chuck?"  he 
said. 

"That's  him,"  said  Chuck. 
42 


The  Runt 

"Why,  a  bunch  of  grass'll  stop  'imi" 
said  Peter.  *'  'E  ain't  big  enough  to  jump 
it." 

"He  don't  jump  nothin',"  Chuck  in- 
formed him.     "He's  got  wings.'* 

*"E  may  lose  'em  before  three  hours," 
said  Peter.  "'Im  an'  'is  breedin'  un- 
known." 

"Maybe,"  said  Chuck.  "Here's  the 
dog  to  clip  'em,  or  it  can't  be  done,"  and 
he  pointed  to  Beau  Brummell  going  out 
to  his  position. 

He  was  still  the  wonder  dog,  a  glory 
every  inch  of  him,  and  a  murmur  of  ad- 
miration rippled  down  the  line  of  horse- 
men. .  .  .  Peter  felt  a  sudden  glow  of 
pride  and  hope. 

But  it  didn't  last.    The  next  moment 

he  was  watching  a  white  speck  fade  away 

across  the  stubble.     As  it  grew  dimmer 

and  dimmer  so  did  Peter's  hopes.     The 

48 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

white  speck  was  Little  Sam,  breeding  un- 
known. When  he  whirled  and  came  to 
point,  at  the  far  edge  of  the  woods.  Brook- 
field  Beau  Brummell  was  a  hundred  feet 
behind. 

Peter  was  among  the  stragglers  in  the 
stampede  across  the  field  which  followed. 
When  he  reached  the  mass  of  waiting 
horsemen,  Old  Man  Todd  was  being 
helped  out  of  his  saddle  to  shoot  over  his 
dog. 

With  a  feeling  of  numb  despair  Peter 
looked  for  the  master  of  Brookfield.  He 
saw  him  at  last,  sitting  his  horse  a  little 
apart  from  the  crowd,  his  face  the  color 
of  ashes. 

Peter  rode  to  him  quickly. 

"What's  the  matter,  sir?"  he  asked. 
"Are  you  unwell?" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  pointing  dog. 
44 


The  Runt 

"Look!"  he  said,  "look!"  And  Peter 
looked  at  Little  Sam.  Then  his  heart 
skipped  a  beat,  fluttered,  and  sent  the 
blood  surging  against  his  eardrums. 

Little  Sam  had  his  bevy  nailed.  He 
stood  as  though  of  stone.  He  looked  like 
white  marble  against  the  dark  of  the 
woods.  And  on  his  side,  his  left  and 
nearest  side,  was  a  perfect  lemon  dumb- 
bell. .  .  . 

"My  Gawd !"  said  Peter.    "My  Gawd  1" 

He  swung  his  eyes  along  the  woods  and 
found  another  statue.  It  was  Beau 
Brummell,  still  as  death  itself,  in  honor 
of  his  brace  mate. 

"My  Gawd!"  said  Peter  again. 
"What'll  we  do?" 

"Nothing — now"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.    "Let  the  best  dog  win." 

A  man  should  only  whisper  while  the 
championship  is  run,  but  Peter  rose  in  his 
45 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

stirrups,  not  fifty  feet  from  a  brace  on 
point,  and  disgraced  himself  forever. 

"My  money's  on  the  old  dog's  blood," 
he  howled;  "an'  let  the  best  dog  win!" 

''Peter!  Peter!"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield,  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  forgot,"  said  Peter  sheepishly. 

There  have  been  field  trials  in  the  past, 
there  will  be  field  trials  in  the  future.  But 
those  who  saw  the  whirlwind  struggle  be- 
tween the  great  Beau  Brummell  and  the 
white  ghost  with  the  magic  nose  will  not 
listen  while  you  tell  of  them.  Eighteen 
bevies  they  found  that  day,  and  they  went 
at  top  speed  to  do  it.  Not  a  bird  was 
flushed  as  they  flashed  into  point  after 
dazzling  point,  backing  each  other  like 
gentlemen. 

It  was  perfect  bird  work,  done  with 
marvelous  speed,  and  the  Beau  had  the 
sympathy  of  those  who  watched,  for  they 
46 


The  Runt 

knew  that  he  was  beaten.  He  had  every- 
thing that  makes  a  champion,  including 
looks  and  heart.  But  the  little  white  dog 
who  skimmed  from  one  covey  to  the  next 
was  more  than  a  champion — ^he  was  a 
miracle.  The  blazing  soul  of  Roderigo 
had  leaped  to  life  in  this,  his  son,  and 
would  not  be  denied. 

An  hour  or  more  had  passed  when 
Chuck  Sellers  thought  of  Peter  and 
sought  him  out  to  offer  what  consolation 
he  could. 

"The  little  dog  may  quit,  Pete,"  he 
said,  "any  time  now.  It's  the  last  half 
that  tells  on  the  short-bred  ones." 

Then  Peter  gave  the  puzzled  Chuck  a 
wide  calm  smile. 

"Nothing  is  certain  in  this  'ere  world," 
he  said.    "But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  that 
is.    That  little  dog  won't  quit  till  the 
pads  wear  off  his  feet." 
47 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

And  Peter  was  right.  The  announce- 
ment of  the  new  champion  finished  with 
"breeding  unknown." 

The  crowd  swarmed  toward  the  win- 
ner, who  grinned  as  they  closed  about  him. 
They  had  never  seen  a  National  Cham- 
pion without  a  pedigree,  and  they  pushed 
and  pulled  and  laughed  and  hooted. 

A  Field  reporter  was  yelling  at  Old 
Man  Todd  above  the  noise. 

"The  country  wants  to  know  this  dog's 
breeding,  old  man,"  he  said.  "And  it's 
got  to  be  traced,  if  possible." 

"He  ain'  got  no  breedin',  I  tell  you!" 
screamed  Old  Man  Todd.  "He's  a  nig- 
gah-raised  dawg — ^jes'  a  niggah-raised 
dawgl" 

The  runt  was  frightened.    It  must  be 

terrible  to  be  a  nigger-raised  dog,  or  all 

these  men  wouldn't  glare  at  him  and  yell ! 

He  remembered  leaving  the  place  where 

48 


The  Runt 

the  big  house  was,  long  ago,  and  riding 
on  a  train.  He  remembered  running  for 
miles  and  miles  until  he  had  found  that 
nice  shed  where  he  could  rest.  A  black 
man  had  come  to  the  shed  and  given  him 
some  milk.  He  drank  it  all  and  went  to 
sleep. 

Next  he  remembered  hunting  birds 
with  the  black  man  every  day.  One  day 
an  old  man  had  watched  him  find  some 
birds  and  had  talked  with  the  black  man. 
Then  he  was  taken  away  by  the  old  man, 
and  had  hunted  birds  with  him  ever 
since. 

They  had  had  a  good  hunt  today.  But 
now  he  was  tired,  and  they  all  yelled  at 
him  so —  Then  someone  pushed  and 
fought  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and 
the  runt  was  glad  to  see  him,  for  it  was 
Peter,  whom  he  had  followed  long  ago. 

The  runt  went  to  him  quickly,  and 
49 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

Peter  fell  on  one  knee  and  put  an  arm 
about  him. 

"Runt!"  said  Peter.  "Runt!— You're 
yer  daddy's  own  son!" 

The  runt  grinned,  and  Peter  put  him 
down  and  took  hold  of  the  leash. 

"Let  go  of  this,  Old  Man,"  he  said. 

It  is  not  a  good  thing  to  win  the  cham- 
pionship with  a  "niggah-raised"  dog  when 
that  dog  has  been  advertised  over  an  en- 
tire state  as  lost.  Old  Man  Todd  looked 
into  Peter's  eyes. 

"Why — ^why — "  he  began,  and  stopped. 
Then  his  fingers  unclosed  from  the  leash 
and  he  backed  slowly  into  the  crowd. 

Peter  whirled  about  and  faced  the  re- 
porter, with  the  runt  close  at  his  side. 

"Now,  Mr.  Reporter,"  he  said,  "you 

can  put  in  your  paper  that  Brookfield 

Dumb-Bell  by  Champion  Brookfield  Rod- 

erigo  'as  won  the  National.    You  can  say 

50 


The  Runt 

the  new  champion  is  out  of  Brookfield 
'Ighland  Lassie,  You  can  tell  'em  'e  was 
bred  and  whelped  at  Brookfield — and 
now  'e*s  goin'  'ome." 

The  reporter  was  dancing  up  and  down. 
His  face  was  red  and  he  had  lost  his  hat. 

"How  can  I  verify  this?"  he  yelled. 
"How  can  I  verify  this?" 

Suddenly  the  runt  saw  the  tall  man  who 
lived  in  the  big  house  he  dimly  remem- 
bered. He  had  always  been  afraid  of  the 
tall  man — he  was  so  quiet.  He  was  quiet 
now.  He  didn't  yell  at  all,  but  when  he 
held  up  his  hand  everybody  kept  still. 

"I  can  verify  it  for  you,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Gregory!"  said  the  reporter. 
"Good,  very  good — excellent!  Will  you 
let  me  have  the  facts  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, please?  I've  got  to  catch  the  even- 
ing papers  I" 

Peter  didn't  stay  to  hear  what  the  tall 
51 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

man  said,  and  the  runt  was  glad  for  he 
was  tired.  But  Peter  put  him  on  a  train 
and  he  couldn't  sleep  it  jiggled  so,  and 
the  baggage  man  gave  him  part  of  his  sup- 
per. When  other  men  came  into  the  car, 
the  baggage  man  pointed  to  him  and  said 
something  about  "National  Champion," 
and  "worth  ten  thousand  dollars,"  and  the 
men  came  and  stared  at  the  runt. 

At  last  they  got  out  of  the  train,  and 
he  and  Peter  and  the  tall  man  rode  in  an 
automobile  till  they  went  through  some 
gates,  and  the  runt  saw  the  lights  of  the 
big  house  shining  through  the  trees. 

"Where  shall  I  take  him,"  asked  Peter, 
"to  the  kennels?" 

The  tall  man  dropped  his  hand  on  the 
runt's  head. 

"I  think  not,  Peter,"  he  said;  and  they 
all  got  out  at  the  front  door. 

As  they  came  into  the  hall  someone 
52 


The  Runt 

called  from  upstairs,  and  the  runt  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  the  pretty  lady. 

"Oh,  Jim!"  said  the  voice.  "Why  didn't 
you  wire?    Did  Beau  Brummell  win?" 

"No,"  said  the  tall  man.  "He  was  run- 
ner up." 

"Oh  I"  said  the  voice,  and  then  nothing 
more  for  a  while,  and  the  runt  could  hear 
the  big  clock  ticking  in  the  hall. 

"Is  Peter  there?"  said  the  voice  at  last. 

"Yes,  mem,"  said  Peter. 

"You  went  back  on  Susy  and  me,  didn't 
you,  Peter?"  said  the  voice. 

"Come  down  here.  Chief!"  said  the  tall 
man.  "Unleash  him  I"  he  directed  in  a 
low  voice,  and  Peter  did  so. 

The  runt  threw  up  his  head  and  sniffed. 
He  was  so  tired  by  now  that  his  legs  were 
beginning  to  shake,  and  he  wanted  a  place 
to  lie  down  .  .  .  then  suddenly  he  re- 
membered. He  walked  to  the  living-room 
53 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

and  peered  in.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was  his 
friend  the  chair,  holding  out  its  arms  to 
him.  .  .  .  The  runt  gave  a  deep  sigh  as 
he  curled  himself  into  it. 

The  tall  man  who  had  followed  laughed 
softly. 

"And  that's  all  right!"  he  said. 

Just  then  the  pretty  lady  came  in. 

"Why — what  dog  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  you  know?"  said  the  tall  man. 

The  pretty  lady  stared  at  the  runt  very 
hard.  He  became  uneasy,  and  grinned. 
The  pretty  lady  shrieked  and  ran  to  him. 

"Little  mannie!"  she  said,  hugging  him 
until  he  could  feel  her  heart  beating 
against  his  side.  "Where  did  they  find 
you,  little  mannie?" 

"At  Grand  Junction,"  said  the  tall 
man. 

"What  was  he  doing  there?"  asked  the 
pretty  lady. 

54 


The  Runt 

"A   good   deal,"    said   the   tall   man. 

The  pretty  lady  gave  the  runt  a  last 
big  squeeze,  then  she  straightened  up. 

"Oh,  Runt!"  she  said.  "Darling  Runt 
-■ — you're  just  as  bad  as  ever!"  She  put 
her  hand  on  his  collar.  "Cornel"  she  said. 
"This  place  isn't  for  you.'* 

But  the  tall  man  stepped  forward,  and 
took  her  hand  from  the  collar.  His  eyes 
were  shining  queerly  and  his  voice  was 
husky. 

"Let  him  alone,  my  dear!"  he  said. 
"Let  him  alone!" 

It  was  nice  of  the  tall  man  to  do  this, 
thought  the  runt.  He  must  have  known 
how  tired,  how  very  tired,  he  was.  He 
curled  himself  deep  in  the  chair  and  began 
to  snore.  ...  In  his  dreams  he  heard 
the  tall  man  talking,  and  then  the  pretty 
lady  bent  above  him,  and  a  wet  drop  fell 
on  his  nose. 

55 


A  RELUCTANT  TRAVELER 


II 

A  RELUCTANT  TRAVELER 

LEONA  was  a  Catholic.  Also,  she 
adored  church  weddings.  Also,  she 
was  aided  and  abetted  in  her  madness, 
and  Peter  was  sunk  in  gloom. 

From  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he  favored 
an  unostentatious,  not  to  say  stealthy, 
visit  to  the  justice  of  the  peace.  Why 
prolong  this  hour  of  pain?  Why  be  butch- 
ered to  make  a  Brookfield  holiday? 

Beyond  all  doubt  his  new  shoes  would 
hurt  him.  His  boiled  shirt  would  creak 
when  he  breathed.  He  would  have  to 
wear  suspenders,  which  he  loathed,  and 
lately  there  had  been  a  growing  murmur 
in  favor  of  kid  gloves. 

His  collar  would  choke  him:  but  this 
59 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

would  be  a  transitory  affliction.  Nature, 
kind  nature,  would  aid  him  here:  before, 
during,  and  immediately  following  the 
ceremony  he  would,  as  he  told  himself, 
"sweat  to  beat  'ell.'* 

He  was  justified  in  this  prophecy.  At 
the  mere  recollection  of  the  wedding  of 
Felix  and  Minnie  he  broke  into  a  gentle 
perspiration.  He  remembered  how  that 
laundress,  the  fat  one,  who  was  by  nature 
a  tearful  person,  had  turned  the  ceremony 
into  a  cataclysm  of  grief.  He  remem- 
bered how  at  the  dance  which  followed 
the  wedding  he  himself  had  been  forced 
to  take  a  turn  with  the  bride,  and  how, 
after  one  round  of  the  carriage  house,  she 
had  informed  him  that  it  was  lucky  she 
was  going  to  Niagara  Falls  because  it  was 
now  doubtful  if  she  could  ever  find  enough 
cold  water  to  relieve  her  feet. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  there  would  be  no 
60 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

trip  to  Niagara  Falls  for  him ;  there  were 
certain  limits  beyond  which  he  would  not 
be  driven.  Leona  had  suggested  it,  of 
course.  But  the  new  brick  cottage  near 
the  kennels  was  finished  and  furnished 
and  waiting.  He  would  make  no  '"oly 
show*'  of  himself  at  the  station,  **dodgin' 
shoes  an'  such !"    That  was  final. 

Then  one  morning  he  was  passing  the 
stables  and  was  halted  by  a  harrowing 
spectacle.  The  doors  of  the  carriage  house 
stood  open.  Clustered  about  the  victoria 
was  a  chattering  feminine  group  who  bent 
to  their  dreadful  task  with  giggles  and 
much  white  ribbon. 

Between  a  rage  and  a  panic  Peter 
sought  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,"  he  began, 
"But  this  'ere  'as  gone  far  enough." 

The  master  of  Brookfield  was  spending 
a  dreamy  hour  in  the  gun  room  among 
61 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

a  welter  of  firearms,  fishing  tackle,  the 
game  heads  of  four  continents,  and  the 
smell  of  oil  and  leather.  He  looked  up 
vaguely  from  a  battered  tin  box  choked 
with  salmon  flies,  and  blinked  at  Peter. 

"If  that's  the  case,  let's  stop  it,"  he  said. 
"But  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

Peter  raised  a  quivering  finger.  "I  am 
a  plain  man!"  he  roared. 

"Granted,"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
field. 

"I'm  no  frog-eatin'  French  shofer!" 

"True,"  said  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

"An',"  declared  Peter,  "I'll  not  drive 
*ome  in  nothing  with  ribbons  on  it!'* 

The  master  of  Brookfield  picked  up  a 
patent  reel  and  turned  quickly  to  the 
window.  He  became  absorbed  in  the 
reel's  mechanism  for  some  moments. 

At  last,  with  his  back  to  Peter,  he 
spoke.  "I  suppose  you've  told  Leona?'* 
62 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

"I  'ave  not,"  said  Peter,  "an'  'ere's 
why:  She  'as  every  female  on  the  place 
behind  'er.  I  'ave  gave  up  on  this  'ere 
church  notion,  with  'alf  the  town  there  an' 
Father  Vincent  in  'is  shirt  tail  sayin'  'okus 
pokus  at  me.  I  'ave  gave  up  on  kid  gloves. 
I  'ave  gave  up  on  'avin'  a  stinkin'  posy 
pinned  to  me.  But  drivin'  'ome  in  a 
bloomin'  birdcage  is  more  than  I  will 
do." 

"Well,  that  settles  it,  doesn't  it?  Why 
do  you  come  to  me?" 

Peter  glanced  cautiously  about  him, 
and  directed  a  meaning  look  at  the  master 
of  Brookfield.  "Be'ind  all  this,"  he  con- 
fided hoarsely,  "is  the  missus!" 

"Ah  I"  said  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

"Could  you  now,"  said  Peter,  "be  of 
'elp  to  me  in  that  quarter?" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  shook  with  a 
sudden  spasm  of  coughing.  When  he 
63 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

was  sufficiently  recovered  he  extended  his 
hand  to  Peter. 

"We'll  make  a  try  of  it,"  he  said.  "But 
I'm  afraid  we  don't  amount  to  much  at  a 
time  like  this,  Peter." 

A  moment  later  they  were  advancing 
manfully  on  the  breakfast-room. 

"Chief,"  began  the  master  of  Brook- 
field,  "we  have  a  complaint  to  make.'* 

Mrs.  Gregory  broke  a  French  roll 
crisply  in  haif. 

"The  cream,  please,  Leona,"  she  said. 
"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  inquired  over  her 
coffee  cup. 

"Peter  shrinks  from  the  spectacular," 
explained  the  master  of  Brookfield.  "He 
is  a  believer  in — er — quiet  simplicity.  He 
objects,  particidarly,  to  ribbons  on  his 
carriage.  Couldn't  you  get  along  without 
this  feature?" 

As  the  last  words  fell  from  the  lips  of 
64 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

the  master  of  Brookfield,  Leona  forgot  a 
lifetime's  training.  She  shot  one  venom- 
ous glance  at  Peter,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Like  that  he  is!"  she  sobbed.  "Al- 
ways like  that  he  is.  Nothing  does  he 
think  of  but  p-p-puppies."  She  made  a 
hasty  clutch  at  her  apron  and  the  cream 
jug  tilted  a  yellow  pool  straight  into  Mrs. 
Gregory's  lap.  "Ah!"  came  a  wail  of  hor- 
ror from  Leona.    "Pardon,  madam." 

Confusion  and  the  flourishing  of  nap- 
kins followed.  Despite  them,  when  the 
mistress  of  Brookfield  could  rise  from  the 
table  the  front  of  her  morning  gown  was 
a  woeful  sight.  She  patted  the  grief- 
stricken  Leona  reassuringly,  and  turned 
to  Peter. 

"Now,  I  hope  you're  satisfied  1'*  She 
said,  and  swept  from  the  room. 

"You  see?"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
65 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

field  when  they  were  safely  in  the  gun- 
room once  more. 

Peter  nodded  gloomily.  "Oh,  I've  gave 
up  on  that,"  he  said;  "but  you  'ear  me 
now — I'll  not  go  to  Nihagara  Falls  l" 

Leona  had  accused  Peter  of  thinking 
only  of  puppies.  This,  however,  was  not 
true.  For  instance,  as  his  wedding  day 
drew  near  he  was  particularly  concerned 
over  Peg  o'  My  Heart,  who  was  on  the 
verge  of  motherhood  and  who  turned  list- 
lessly from  the  most  tempting  morsels 
he  could  offer. 

"What  is  it,  old  lady?"  asked  Peter. 
"'Ere's  a  nice  piece  of  liver  now.  Be  a 
good  gel  and  take  it!  No?  Well  'ow 
about  this  good  warm  milk?  The  little 
*uns'll  need  it.  Come  on  now,  Peggy 
dear!" 

At  his  urging  Peggy  sniffed  at  the  milk 
66 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

bowl,  then  lapped  a  swallow  or  two.  She 
drew  back,  thanked  Peter  with  a  wave  of 
her  tail,  and  sank  down  into  the  straw. 

Peter  lifted  her  muzzle  and  stared  into 
her  eyes.  He  found  them  dark  and  glit- 
tering, and  his  own  narrowed  with  anxi- 
ety. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  once  more,  and 
Peggy  voiced  her  trouble  with  a  gentle 
whine.  "Yes,  I  know,"  Peter  told  her 
softly;  but  this  was  not  the  truth.  He 
could  only,  like  the  most  pompous  of 
whiskered  medicos,  guess  and  guess 
again. 

However,  he  got  his  thermometer  from 
the  medicine  chest,  and  shook  his  head 
over  the  tiny  line  of  quicksilver  a  moment 
later.  .  .  .  This  much  he  knew:  Brook- 
field  Peg  o'  My  Heart,  bench  and  field 
trial  winner,  with  the  blood  of  twenty 
champions  in  her  veins,  faced  her  ac-' 
67 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Broohfield 

couchement  with  a  temperature  of  one 
hundred  and  three. 

Peter  looked  up  from  the  thennometer 
to  find  Leona  standing  in  the  doorway. 
She  had  a  slim  white  box  in  her  hand  and 
a  warm,  shy  look  in  her  eyes. 

"For  you,"  she  said.  "From  me.  To- 
morrow you  wear  it  when — when — "  She 
became  speechless,  flushing  hotly. 

Peter  took  the  box  automatically, 
opened  it  and  beheld  a  lavender  tie  of 
knitted  silk.  He  gazed  at  the  tie  vaguely 
for  a  moment,  replaced  the  cover,  and  put 
the  box  in  his  pocket. 

"This  *ere  bitch,"  he  said,  "ain't  well 
by  no  means."  He  stooped  over  Peg  o' 
My  Heart.  "If  you're  going  to  the  'ouse," 
he  threw  over  his  shoulder,  "telephone 
Slosson  to  come  out  'ere." 

The  warm,  shy  look  fled  swiftly  from 
Leona's  eyes.  The  flush  left  her  cheeks 
68 


t 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

as  they  paled  with  indignation.  She  had 
knitted  the  tie  with  her  own  fair  hands 
and  had  gone  back  through  rows  and  rows 
to  recover  a  stitch  not  even  dropped  but 
loosely  woven. 

A  silence  that  bristled  followed  Peter's 
words.    At  last  he  glanced  her  way. 

"Did  you  'ear  me?"  he  inquired,  and 
was  shocked  by  the  countenance  of  his 
bride-to-be.  Wrath  blazed  in  her  eyes. 
Scorn  curled  her  lips.  Her  chin  quivered 
ominously.  Even  as  he  opened  his  lips  to 
ascertain  the  cause  of  her  displeasure  she 
turned  stiffly  from  him  and  was  gone. 

Peter  regarded  the  empty  doorway  for 
a  moment  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"Now  what?"  he  said  aloud.  Then  he 
shut  his  jaws.  "If  it's  Nihagara  Falls," 
he  muttered,  "she  can  take  on  till  the  cows 
come  'ome — 'er  an'  the  missus,  too." 

He  spent  the  next  few  hours  with  Peg 
C9 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

o'  My  Heart,  and  Powder  and  Shot 
howled  a  protest  to  him  as  he  passed  their 
runway.  They  were  the  pick  of  the  first 
litter  by  Brookfield  Dumb-Bell,  were 
through  with  yard  breaking,  and  should 
have  gone  afield  that  day. 

"I'll  thank  you  for  less  noise,"  Peter 
told  them.  "You'll  get  your  run  tomor- 
row. "  He  made  the  promise  in  good  faith, 
and  then  it  dawned  on  him  what  day  to- 
morrow was.  He  grinned  sheepishly. 
"On  the  'ole,"  he  decided,  staring  at  the 
wildly  eager  Powder  and  Shot,  "I'll  'ave 
my  'ands  full  tomorrow,  I  expect." 

Then  he  remembered  that  Peg  o'  My 
Heart  had  never  had  distemper.  She 
showed  no  signs  of  the  disease,  but  he  did 
not  know  what  ailed  her  as  yet,  and  until 
her  malady  developed  these  youngsters 
would  be  better  farther  from  the  whelp- 
ing shed.  He  put  them  on  leash  and  took 
70 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

them  to  a  runway  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  line. 

"In  you  go,"  he  said,  and  closed  the 
gate  in  their  despairing  faces. 

Through  such  small  incidents  as  this 
come  large  aifairs.  The  runways  at 
Brookfield  have  two  feet  of  grouting  be- 
low the  fences.  In  this  particular  run- 
way the  frost  had  been  at  work  that  win- 
ter. It  had  lifted  the  grouting  and  forced 
up  the  east  fence  several  inches.  Peter 
had  noticed  this  some  months  before  and 
had  removed  the  inmate  of  the  runway — 
also  the  loose  grouting,  intending  to  repair 
the  damage  later. 

And  now,  with  the  pressure  of  events 
distracting  him,  he  had  forgotten;  and 
Powder  and  Shot,  after  a  careful  inspec- 
tion of  their  new  quarters,  set  joyfully  to 
work.  Inside  that  fencp  was  a  dreary 
world  in  which  the  hours  dragged  by  on 
71 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

leaden  feet.  Outside  was  a  heaven  con- 
taining Peter  and  the  rolling  fields..  To 
reach  it  one  must  dig  industriously;  but 
what  was  a  little  digging? 

They  dug  until  the  moon  came  up  to 
watch  their  labors.  They  rested  toward 
morning,  and  when  the  sun  rose  a  kennel 
boy  brought  them  food  and  went  his  way, 
and  then  for  hours  they  were  undisturbed. 

It  was  queer  how  quiet  it  was  at  the 
kennels.  They  missed  Peter's  morning 
inspection.  They  missed  his  footsteps 
and  his  voice  and  his  whistle.  Well,  he 
was  somewhere  outside,  that  was  certain. 
.  .  .  The  situation  seemed  to  require  more 
digging. 

By  nine  o'clock,  Powder,  who  was  a 
shade  the  smaller,  squeezed,  with  a  whim- 
per of  excitement,  to  freedom. 

Shot  wailed  in  agony  and  flung  himself 
at  the  hole.  By  a  desperate  effort  he  won 
.72 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

through,  leaving  a  tuft  of  hair  behind  him. 

He  gave  a  triumphant  yelp,  then  shot 
down  the  line  of  runways.  He  met  Pow- 
der, a  white  flash,  returning,  and  together 
they  explored  the  kennel  house.  The 
scent  of  Peter  was  all  about,  but  Peter 
himself  was  strangely  absent.  Well,  he 
had  worked  them  over  the  marshy  ground 
by  the  creek  the  last  time  he  had  taken 
them  out.  There  were  snipe  in  the  marsh. 
Perhaps  Peter  was  looking  for  snipe  I  .  .  . 
They  went  over  the  hill  toward  the  marsh 
like  twin  streaks. 

Peter  was  not  at  the  marsh,  but  they 
found  a  fat  jacksnipe,  and  they  chased  it 
madly  across  the  oozy  meadows  while  the 
snipe  said:  **Scai-ipI  Scai-ipl"  and  they 
acquired  a  coating  of  black  muck  and 
green  slime. 

The  snipe  became  disgusted  at  last  and 
disappeared  in  the  sky,  and  their  thoughts 
«  i73 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Broohfield 

returned  uneasily  to  Peter.  They  had 
chased,  which  was  wrong.  Guilt  was 
heavy  on  their  souls.  They  must  find 
Peter,  take  a  whipping  if  necessary,  and 
be  forgiven. 

They  turned  homeward  and  scoured  the 
place  from  end  to  end.  At  last  Shot 
found  a  trace  of  Peter  in  the  drive.  He 
followed  the  scent  until  it  disappeared 
unaccountably.  It  was  replaced  by  the 
smell  of  rubber  tires.  Ah,  that  was  it! 
Peter  had  gone  away  on  the  thing  that 
made  the  rubber  smell.  To  find  Peter  it 
was  necessary  to  follow  the  rubber  smell. 
He  explained  this  to  Powder,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  they  arrived  at  the  main  gates 
and  the  wide  road  leading  out  into  the 
world. 

They  hesitated  here.  They  had  never 
been  off  the  place  before.  It  was  a  tre- 
mendous venture;  but  the  trail  of  the 
74 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

rubber  smell  led  straight  away  from  the 
gates.  They  sniffed  at  it,  whined  anx- 
iously, then  slowly  it  drew  them  on. 

There  had  been  friction  between  the 
groom  and  the  best  man.  It  had  de- 
veloped over  the  groom's  toilet.  In  par- 
ticular, a  fawn-colored  waistcoat  which 
the  best  man  had  extracted  from  his  own 
wardrobe  had  proved  an  irritant.  It  had 
taken  all  of  ten  minutes  to  persuade  the 
groom  that  its  splendors  would  not  trans- 
form its  wearer  into  a  *"oly  show." 

At  last  this  was  accomplished,  a  coat 
was  slipped  on  over  the  waistcoat,  and  a 
whisk  broom  applied  to  the  tout  ensemble, 

"An*  now,"  said  Peter  ungratefully,  "I 
'ope  to  Gawd  you're  through." 

Griggs,  the  butler,  stepped  back  and 
surveyed  his  work  with  growing  pride. 
He  had  felt  his  task  to  be  hopeless  until 
75 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

now;  but  he  had  builded  better  than  he 
knew.    The  result  surprised  him. 

"Not  bad,"  he  said,  revolving  slowly  and 
with  half  shut  eyes  about  Peter's  person. 
"Very  genteel,  I  should  say,  if  you  ask 
me.  Try  to  stand  more  as  if  you  was 
made  of  something  besides  cement." 

He  smoothed  a  lapel,  tweaked  the  lav- 
ender silk  tie,  and  withdrew  a  boutonniere 
from  Peter's  shaving  mug. 

"Mrs.  Gregory's  orders,"  he  said  firmly, 
as  he  pinned  the  flowers  to  a  shrinking 
bosom.  "If  you'd  take  things  as  they 
come,"  he  suggested,  "you'd  'elp  appear- 
ances by  sweating  less  profuse." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  flickered  for  an 
instant  in  Peter's  dripping  countenance. 

"I'll  'andle  that  matter  to  suit  myself," 
he  stated. 

Griggs  consulted  his  watch. 

"Well,  take  'old  of  yourself,"  he  ad- 
76 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

vised.  "I  must  'ave  you  at  the  church  in 
ten  minutes.  'Ere's  the  motor  now.  .  .  . 
Kindly  put  that  chewing  tobacco  back 
where  you  got  it!'* 

Ten  minutes  later  Peter  was  staring 
fixedly  at  nothing.  His  eyes  were  glazed, 
his  knees  shook,  his  hands  had  become  ex- 
traordinarily prominent.  There  stretched 
before  him  a  white-ribboned  aisle  that  cut 
a  blurred  mass  of  rustling,  whispering, 
staring  humanity  squarely  in  half.  All 
Brookfield  was  there,  of  course,  and  most 
of  the  village  besides;  but  Peter  knew 
them  not  as  individuals.  They  were  noth- 
ing but  eyes,  devouring  eyes,  that  feasted 
on  the  very  soul  of  him  as  it  palpitated 
somewhere  beneath  the  fawn-colored 
waistcoat. 

Then  a  face  swam  out  of  the  blurred 
mass  before  him,  and  it  was  the  face  of 
the  master  of  Brookfield,  and  it  grinned 
77 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

mockingly  at  him  and  then  faded  awaj^ 

There  was  a  sort  of  moaning  sound, 
and  Peter  knew  that  it  came  from  the 
organ,  and  then  the  church  door  filled  and 
there  bore  down  on  him  a  floating  cloudy 
whiteness,  and  somewhere  in  it  was  a 
new  pair  of  eyes,  big  and  blue  and  mys- 
terious. 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  cooed  once 
with  delight. 

"Isn't  she  adorable,  Jim?"  she  gasped. 
"And  Peter,  I'm  proud  of  Peter,  too. .  . . 
It's  going  splendidly!" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  gave  the  bride 
a  brief  glance.  Then  his  fascinated  eye 
swung  back  and  settled  on  a  lavender  tie, 
white  houtonniere  and  fawn-colored  waist- 
coat. 

"Superb!"  he  murmured,  and  bowed  his 
head  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  pew.  He 
looked  up  at  last  just  as  Father  Vincent 
78 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

rolled  forth  the  first  sonorous  Latin  of 
the  service. 

Then  the  master  of  Brookfield  became 
conscious  of  a  vague  and  rustling  murmur 
from  the  back  of  the  church.  He  heard 
the  booming  voice  of  Father  Vincent  fal- 
ter. He  turned  toward  the  growing  mur- 
mur, and  a  look  of  such  unhallowed  joy- 
came  into  his  face  that  the  mistress  of 
Brookfield  marveled,  and  quickly  fol- 
lowed his  glance  with  her  own.  Her  face 
froze  with  horror  as  she  did  so. 

Down  the  ribboned  aisle,  the  rubber 
smell  discarded  for  the  more  certain  scent 
of  Peter's  footsteps,  came  two  animated 
mops  of  dust  and  swamp  ooze.  They 
came  swiftly,  surely,  and  they  threw  them- 
selves with  abandon  at  Peter,  whom  they 
had  come  so  far  to  find. 

The  next  few  moments  were  full  to 
overflowing.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  record 
79 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

that  the  best  man  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency. He  plunged  to  the  rescue  of  the 
groom — or  was  it  the  fawn-colored  waist- 
coat ? — at  the  expense  of  his  own  apparel. 
He  succeeded  in  fastening  a  pudgy  hand 
on  Powder's  collar,  but  the  fingers  of  his 
other  hand  closed  wildly  on  one  of  Shot's 
long,  silky,  sensitive  ears,  and  Shot  raised 
his  voice  in  a  despairing  wail. 

Father  Vincent  had  thus  far  proved 
his  mettle.  He  had  no  more  than  hesi- 
tated for  an  instant  at  the  first  whirl- 
wind entrance  of  the  puppies.  Then, 
without  a  visible  tremor,  he  continued  the 
service. 

But  now  the  groom  was  moved  to 
speech.  He  glared  once  at  the  worthy 
Griggs,  and  addressed  Father  Vincent 
briefly. 

"'Old  your  'orses,"  he  said.  He  whirled 
and  advanced  on  the  best  man,  and  fire 
80 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

was  in  his  eye.  "'Aven't  you  no  sense?" 
he  inquired.  "Do  you  think  you  can  ^old 
a  setter  by  the  ear.  'E  ain't  a  'og  nor  yet 
a  calf!    Leggo  of  'iml" 

Griggs  obeyed,  and  Shot  flew  to  his 
rescuer  with  a  whine  of  gratitude. 

**'Ow,"  said  Peter,  advancing  another 
step,  "would  you  like  for  a  big  fat-'anded 
bum  to  take  *old  of  your  ear?" 

Griggs  backed  hurriedly  against  the 
chancel  railing,  still  holding  Powder  me- 
chanically by  the  collar.  Peter  pointed 
to  the  puppy, 

"Leggo  of  'im,  too,"  he  ordered,  and 
Griggs's  nerveless  fingers  unclosed  from 
the  collar. 

"A  setter's  ear,"  explained  Peter  to 
the  awestricken  front  pews,  "is  that  deli- 
cate it  ought  never  to  be  touched,  'ardly, 
let  alone  'anging  to  it." 

At  these  words  a  distressing  thing  oc- 
81 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

curred.  For  some  moments  the  master 
of  Brookfield,  unnoticed  for  the  time 
being,  had  been  rocking  back  and  forth  as 
though  in  terrible  agony.  But  now  at- 
tention swung  his  way,  for  there  burst 
from  him  a  sound  difiicult  to  describe.  It 
was  as  though  a  hen,  afflicted  with  bron- 
chitis, were  attempting  to  cackle.  That 
he  was  suffering  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
for  he  writhed  in  his  seat.  Quite  suddenly 
he  disappeared  altogether,  and  those  near- 
est him  realized  that  he  had  collapsed  en- 
tirely, and  now  half  sat,  half  lay,  in  the 
corner  of  the  pew. 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  bent  over 
him.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  tender  so- 
licitude.   It  was  deceiving,  however. 

"Jim  Gregory,"  she  hissed,  "sit  up  this 
instant!" 

Strange  words,  harsh  words,  to  a  man 
overtaken  by  a  dire  seizure,  and  the  mas- 
82 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

ter  of  Brookfield  sent  back  a  husky  ap- 
peal for  mercy. 

"  *I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying,* "  he  m- 
formed  her. 

His  life  partner  proved  herself  a  cruel, 
a  heartless  woman.  She  straightened  up 
and  sat  stiffly  erect,  coldly,  proudly  pale. 

"I'll  not  forgive  you!"  she  told  him, 
looking  straight  before  her,  and  added, 
regardless  of  her  grammar,  "Never!" 

All  this  is  minor  detail.  The  central 
figure  was  Peter,  who  proved  at  this 
moment  his  right  to  the  attention  of  the 
audience.  He  turned  from  the  abashed 
and  shrinking  Griggs  and  uttered  one 
word. 

"*EelI"  he  said. 

Powder  and  Shot  now  did  their  mentor 
proud.  They  obeyed  the  command  in- 
stantly, and  halted  just  behind  Peter,  one 
to  the  right,  one  to  the  left  of  him.  Peter 
83 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

took  his  place  at  Leona's  side,  the  puppies 
follgwing. 

"Charge!"  he  ordered. 

Powder  and  Shot  sank  dutifully  dowri 
behind  him.  Peter  gave  Father  Vincent 
a  look  of  supreme  triumph. 

"'Ow's  that,"  he  inquired  in  a  confiden- 
tial whisper,  "for  only  eight  months?" 

Father  Vincent  did  not  reply.  His 
face,  which  had  been  cherry  red,  became 
a  vivid  purple.  Above  all  else  he  wished 
to  meet  the  eye  of  the  master  of  Brook- 
field.  He  knew,  however,  that  to  do  so 
would  be  fatal.  He  made  a  supreme 
effort. 

"Join  hands,"  he  directed;  and  then, 
despite  the  countenance  of  the  bride, 
which  seemed  to  hold  in  check  the  light- 
ning's blast,  he  went  on  with  the  service, 
while  Powder  and  Shot,  their  heads  tilt- 
ing now  and  then  to  hear  the  better,  gave 
84 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

his  flowing  Latin  a  close,  a  respectful 
attention. 

They  were  good.  They  were  good  as 
gold,  and  Peter  swelled  with  pride.  His 
face  shone  with  it  as  he  turned  at  last 
from  the  altar,  a  bachelor  no  longer. 
There  remained,  however,  the  long  jour- 
ney down  a  lane  of  whispering  humans. 
Would  Powder  and  Shot  stand  this  acid 
test? 

"'Eel!"  conmianded  Peter  with  some 
anxiety.  He  was  rewarded  by  such 
prompt  obedience  that  he  was  reassured. 
He  began  the  march  down  the  aisle  in 
visible  triumph.  Then,  as  he  passed  the 
pew  wherein  was  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field,  he  received  a  dagger  glance  that 
made  him  falter.  He  looked  uneasily  be- 
hind him  to  see  if  the  puppies  were  at  heel. 
They  were;  but  Leona,  unfortunately, 
was  three  paces  in  the  rear  of  them. 
85 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

Then  Peter  remembered.  He  had  been 
told  to  bear  his  bride  from  the  altar  on 
his  right  arm.  He  slackened  his  pace 
until  she  came  abreast  of  him,  then  poked 
his  elbow  at  her  invitingly. 

"'Eer,"  he  muttered,  "take  'old  of  this!" 

And  then  Leona  repudiated  her  mar- 
riage vows  with  startling  swiftness.  The 
echo  of  her  promise  to  obey  had  scarcely 
ceased  to  whisper  from  the  vaulted  ceil- 
ing, yet  at  this  first  connubial  command 
she  became  insurgent.  She  shrank  from 
Peter's  offered  arm  as  though  it  were  an 
adder.  Without  acknowledging  his  pres- 
ence by  so  much  as  the  quiver  of  an  eye- 
lash, she  swept  on — at  Peter's  side,  to  be 
sure,  but  as  far  from  physical  contact  with 
him  as  the  width  of  the  aisle  would  permit. 

They  reached  the  door  at  last,  to  find 
the  victoria  and  a  pair  of  hunters,  pressed 
into  unaccustomed  service,  waiting  at  the 
86 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

curb.  Peter  surveyed  the  victoria  dubi- 
ously. Once,  long  ago,  it  had  been  Brook- 
field's  pride.  He  glanced  from  its  cloth 
upholstering  to  the  bedraggled  Powder 
and  Shot.  The  comparison  was  odious; 
but  this  was  an  emergency,  and  what  must 
be  must  be. 

"I'll  keep  'em  on  the  floor  like,"  he  ex- 
plained to  old  Marcus,  who  was  on  the 
box.  "They'd  be  'ell-'ooping  over  'alf  the 
country  if  I  let  'em  go.  'Op  in !"  he  told 
Leona,  "an'  'old  on  to  one  of  'em  when  I 
'and  'im  to  you." 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  her  married 
life,  Leona  addressed  her  husband. 

"Assassin!"  she  gasped,  and  fled. 

Peter's  mouth  opened  with  amazement 
as  he  watched  her.  She  went  as  though 
pursued,  her  veil  trailing  behind  her,  her 
hands  clasped  at  her  bosom.  As  she 
reached  the  Brookfield  limousine  she 
87 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

swerved,  climbed  wildly  in,  and  sank,  a 
sobbing  heap,  into  the  deep  cushions  of 
the  back  seat. 

Peter's  mouth  was  still  open  as  the  mis- 
tress of  Brookfield  appeared  hurriedly  in 
the  church  door.  Her  eyes  swept  past  the 
victoria  and  caught  the  huddled  figure  in 
the  limousine.  She  favored  Peter  with 
one  crushing  look  as  she  flew  to  Leona*s 
side. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  followed  her 
leisurely.  As  he  reached  the  car  its  door 
closed  in  his  face. 

"Home,  Felix,"  said,  the  mistress  of 
Brookfield  succinctly,  and  the  big  car 
rolled  like  a  battleship  from  the  curb. 

Peter  and  the  master  of  Brookfield 
watched  it  until  it  turned  the  comer  and 
disappeared.     Then  their  eyes  met. 

Peter  put  Powder  and  Shot  into  the 
victoria,  climbed  in  himself,  and  looked 
88 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

uncertainly  at  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

*"0w  about  a  lift?"  he  suggested  with 
an  apologetic  glance  at  the  bows  of  white 
ribbon  which  gleamed  like  snow  against 
the  dark  running  gear  of  the  victoria. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  accepted  the 
invitation  with  alacrity. 

"You're  on,"  he  said  with  a  gleam. 

At  the  end  of  two  strenuously  tearful 
hours  the  mistress  of  Brookfield  had  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  the  bride  that  her 
life  was  not  wrecked  beyond  repair, 

"And  now,"  said  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field, "drink  your  tea  and  no  more  crying. 
I'll  see  that  you  have  your  wedding  trip." 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Leona. 

"I'm  going  to  send  for  Peter  now.  You 
can  leave  on  the  six  o'clock  train  tonight." 

"To     Niagara     Falls     we     will     go, 
madam?"  questioned  Leona. 
7  89 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

"If  you  prefer,"  promised  the  mistress 
of  Brookfield,  and  was  rewarded  by  a 
quivering    smile. 

When  Peter  entered,  hat  in  hand,  a 
few  moments  later,  he,  too,  was  smiling. 
He  beamed  joyfully  at  Leona  and  the 
mistress  of  Brookfield. 

"The  Peg  bitch,"  he  said,  "'as  'ad  six 
grand  pups.  'Er  fever's  gone  down,  an' 
Slosson  says  she'll  be  'erself  in  no  time. 
'E  thinks  mebby  as  'ow — " 

"Peter,"  cried  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field, "stop  this  instant!  There,  there," 
she  said  soothingly  to  Leona,  "he  doesn't 
mean  it.  Don't  you  dare,"  she  threw  at 
Peter,  "mention  dogs  again!" 

Peter  swallowed  hastily,  reached  for  his 
chewing  tobacco,  recollected  himself  in 
time,  and  touched  his  forehead. 

"No,  mem,"  he  said  dazedly. 

Thwe  was  a  moment's  pause. 
90 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

"Peter,"  said  the  mistress  of  Brookfield 
at  last,  "are  you  fond  of  Leona?" 

Peter  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair 
and  dropped  his  eyes.  He  raised  them 
then  until  they  met  a  pair  of  moist  blue 
ones,  into  which  he  gazed. 

"Why,"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "she's 
just  the  finest  gel  that  ever  stood  on 
two  legs!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  mistress  of  Brookfield. 
"Now  give  her  a  kiss."  She  became  busy 
at  her  desk  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to 
Peter  and  put  a  folded  piece  of  paper  in 
his  hand.  "You're  going  on  a  little  trip 
together,"  she  explained.  "You  leave  at 
six  o'clock.  Drive  to  town  now  and  have 
that  cashed." 

Peter's  face  fell  as  he  unfolded  the 
•paper  mechanically.  He  brightened  some- 
what when  his  eye  took  in  the  check's 
figures. 

91 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

"Why,  now,"  he  said,  "I've  been  think- 
ing as  'ow  I'd  like  to  go  down  to  Chuck 
Sellers's  place  in  Tennessee.  'E's  got  a 
strain  of  these  'ere  Pointin'  Griffons  'e 
wants  me  to  look  over." 

A  quavering  moan  came  from  Leona. 
The  mistress  of  Brookfield  shot  Peter  an 
icy  glance. 

"You  will  go,"  she  said  frigidly,  "to 
Niagara  Falls.  Felix  will  take  you  to  the 
train." 

"Yes,  mem,"  said  Peter,  and  withdrew. 

At  fiYt  forty-five  that  evening  he  strug- 
gled with  a  bulging  suitcase  into  the 
limousine  and  took  his  seat  beside  his 
beaming  bride. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  strolled  out 
of  the  dusk,  cigarette  in  hand,  and  halted 
by  the  car. 

"Where  to  now?"  he  inquired. 

"Nihagara  Falls,"  said  Peter. 
92 


A  Reluctant  Traveler 

"But  I  thought — "  began  the  master  of 
Brookfield. 

Peter  kicked  the  suitcase  viciously,  and 
slumped  down  in  his  seat. 

"Oh,  I've  gave  up  on  that,"  he  said. 


DUMB-BELL'S  CHECK 


Ill 

DUMB-BELL'S  CHECK 

DURING  the  summer  months  early 
dimier  was  the  custom  at  Brook- 
field.  It  was  served  out  of  doors,  weather 
permitting,  either  on  the  terrace  or  be- 
neath the  canopy  of  vines  which  crept  with 
artful  abandon  from  end  to  end  of  the  per- 
gola. 

In  the  latter  case  it  meant  that  the  mas- 
ter and  mistress  of  Brookfield  were  alone 
and  it  would  be  a  "cozy"  dinner,  as  they 
called  it,  hidden  from  the  many  staring 
windows  of  the  big  house  by  the  dumb 
and  eyeless  vine. 

At  such  times  those  who  served  them 
did  so  swiftly,  and  withdrew.  Then  they 
helped  themselves  and  stole  choice  mor- 
97 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

sels  from  each  other's  plates,  and  giggled, 
and  "scrapped,"  as  in  days  gone  by,  and 
sometimes  upset  things,  which  was  dread- 
ful. But  no  one  would  come  except  at 
the  voice  of  the  silver  bell  with  the 
carved  ivory  handle,  and  they  were  care- 
ful not  to  touch  it  lest  its  fatal  clamor 
occur. 

"Chief,"  said  the  master  of  Brookfield, 
one  August  evening,  "pass  the  jam!" 
He  indicated  with  a  lordly  gesture  a 
mound  of  currant  jelly  glowing  in  a  crys- 
tal dish. 

Since  jam  had  to  do  with  childhood  his 
words  were  a  challenge  which  Mrs.  Greg- 
ory at  once  accepted. 

"Why,  certainly,"  she  said  politely,  and 
placed  a  buttered  ear  of  corn  in  his  ex- 
tended palm. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  scooped  a 
lump  of  ice  from  his  drinking  goblet,  en- 
98 


Dumb-BelVs  Check 


circled  his  lady  with  his  arm,  and  drew 
her  slowly  to  him. 

"It's  not  fair  to  use  strength,"  she 
wailed.  "You  know  it*s  not.  You're 
breaking  a  rule." 

At  that  exact  moment  Leona  stood 
round-eyed  in  the  entrance  to  the  per- 
gola. 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  became  par- 
ticularly dignified.  She  returned  to  her 
chair  unhurriedly,  patted  her  hair,  and 
then  addressed  Leona. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said.    "I  didn't  ring." 

"Peter  to  you  weesh  to  speak,"  ex- 
plained Leona  with  a  gulp. 

Mrs.  Gregory  looked  at  Leona  in 
amazement. 

"Peter?"  she  said.  "Why,  what's  got 
into  the  man?"  Then  apprehension  seized 
her.    "Is  anything  wrong  at  the  kennels?" 
she  asked  quickly.    "Where  is  Peter?'* 
99 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

"'Ere,  mem,  beggin'  your  pardon,"  said 
Peter,  and  appeared  miraculously  beside 
Leona.  "I  thought  as  'ow  you'd  like  to 
see  this  'ere,"  he  explained,  as  he  pulled 
a  copy  of  The  American  Field  from  his 
pocket.    "It's  just  come." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Peter?" 
asked  the  master  of  Brookfield.  "Have 
you  lost  your  mind?" 

"No,  sir,  beggin'  your  pardon,"  said 
Peter.  "They've  challenged  with  the  big 
pointer  to  run  a  three-hour  match  against 
Dumb-Bell  for  a  thousand  dollars.  It's 
all  in  'ere,"  he  added,  flourishing  the  pa- 
per.   "You  can  see  for  yourself." 

The  master  of  Brookfield  scowled  at 
Peter. 

"What  of  it?"  he  said.  "Why  do  you 
come  here  with  it  now?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Peter,  a  shade 
uncertainly,  "the  quicker  you  knew  about 
100 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


it,  the  quicker  you  could  take  *em  up. 
You  can  wire  yet  tonight,  sir." 

Mrs.  Gregory  watched  the  master  of 
Brookfield  with  dancing  eyes.  But  the 
master  of  Brookfield  did  not  smile.  "Why 
should  I  'take  *em  up'?"  he  asked. 

Peter's  jaw  dropped. 

*'Why,  now — er — "  he  began,  and  be- 
came speechless  as  his  world  fell  about 
him.  At  last  he  looked  up,  dull-eyed.  "I 
never  thought,"  he  said,  "as  'ow  you*d 
let  'em  say  we  was  afraid  to  race  the  big 
'ound.  ...  I  ax  your  pardon  for  dis- 
turbin'  of  you."  He  folded  the  paper, 
stuffed  it  into  his  pocket,  and  turned 
slowly  away.  "Good  night,  mem,"  he 
threw  over  his  shoulder,  and  was 
gone. 

"Oh,  Jim!"  said  Mrs.  Gregory.  "He's 
heartbroken — he  thinks  you  mean  it  I 
Peter!"  she  called,  "Peter!"  But  Peter 
101 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

was  out  of  earshot,  and  she  rang  the  silver 
bell. 

While  someone  went  to  summon  Peter, 
the  master  of  Brookfield  wrote  a  tele- 
gram. As  he  finished,  Peter  again  ap- 
peared. 

"They  said  as  'ow  you  wanted  me,"  he 
muttered,  looking  straight  before  him. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
field. "You  left  in  such  a  hurry  you  for- 
got to  take  this  with  you.  ...  I  want  it 
sent  tonight." 

Peter  took  the  telegram  and  read  it 
carefully.  He  looked  up  with  blazing  eyes. 

"That's  tellin'  'em!"  he  said.  "I'll  start 
workin'  the  little  dog  tomorrow.  We'll 
need  all  of  two  months  to  get  'im  ready — 
*e'll  'ave  to  go  to  Ramsey  for  a  month  on 
chicken." 

There  are  two  championships  in  which 
102 


Dumb-BelVs  Check 


field  trial  dogs  compete.  The  winning  of 
either  means  everlasting  glory.  One,  the 
National,  is  run  in  Tennessee  on  quail. 
The  other,  the  All  America,  is  run  in  the 
Far  West  on  prairie  chicken. 

The  winner  of  the  National  or  the  All 
America  has  Champion  written  before  his 
name  from  that  day  on,  and  never  again 
may  he  compete  in  open  trials.  He  is  a 
crowned  king,  whose  sons  and  daughters 
are  of  the  blood  royal.  He  may  not  stoop 
to  struggle  with  more  common  clay. 

But  a  champion  may  run  a  match  race 
against  any  dog  with  the  temerity  to  meet 
him.  And  now  Champion  Brookfield 
Dumb-Bell,  winner  of  the  National,  had 
been  defied  in  public  print  by  the  owner 
of  Champion  Windem  Bang,  winner  of 
the  All  America,  and  Peter  was  in  a 
fever. 

The  telegram  he  sent  that  night  read: 
103 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

Meet  you  any  time  after  October  first,  at 
any  place,  for  any  sum. 

And  it  meant  that  "the  little  white 
ghost"  must  leave  his  leather  chair  in  the 
living-room  and  take  to  the  open  for  the 
honor  of  Brookfield. 

So,  early  next  morning,  Peter,  a  ken- 
nel boy,  and  the  small  champion  went 
over  the  hill  to  the  broad  meadows  across 
which  the  brook  lay  like  a  silver  serpent. 

Peter  rode  a  good  horse.  Dumb -Bell 
had  not  been  hunted  for  pleasure  as  yet, 
and  no  man  on  foot  could  keep  within 
sight  of  the  ghost  at  his  work. 

"Turn  'im  loose!"  said  Peter  to  the  ken- 
nel boy.  "An*  meet  me  by  them  there  wil- 
lows in  thirty  minutes." 

"O-o-o-ol"  said  the  kennel  boy  a  mo- 
ment later,  his  eyes  on  something  white 
fading,  fading  in  the  distance. 

"'E's  'ell,  ain't  'e!"  said  Peter,  gather- 
104 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


ing  up  his  reins.  "Come  on,  'ossi  You 
wouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like  that  get 
away  from  you,  would  you?" 

Morning  after  morning  from  then  on 
they  went  forth,  and  little  by  little  the 
thirty  minutes  were  increased  until  at  last 
Dumb-Bell  could  do  the  full  three  hours 
at  top  speed,  wolf  down  his  meal  that 
night,  and  ask  for  more. 

According  to  science,  fatigue  produces 
a  toxin.  When  an  animal  is  overworked 
he  cannot  throw  this  off.  The  poison  dulls 
the  nerves  of  his  stomach  and  plays  havoc 
with  his  appetite.  Peter  knew  nothing  of 
science,  but  he  scanned  a  tin  plate  anx- 
iously every  evening.  When,  after  the 
full  three  hours,  it  was  licked  to  mirror 
brightness — 

"'E's  ready,"  said  Peter,  "to  beat  any- 
body's dog!" 

Meanwhile  the  field  trial  world  divided 
8  105 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

over  this  meeting  of  champions.  Pointer 
men  prayed,  in  private,  for  big  slashing, 
smashing  Windem  Bang.  In  public  they 
admitted  that  perhaps  the  Brookfield  set- 
ter had  a  shade  in  nose  and  bird  sense, 
but  for  courage  and  headlong  brilliancy 
there  was  "nothing  to  it"  but  the  pointer. 
Furthermore,  since  Gregory  had  allovi^ed 
his  adversary  to  name  the  place  for  the 
meeting,  the  owner  of  the  pointer  had  of 
course  chosen  North  Dakota,  the  home  of 
the  prairie  chicken.  The  country  and  the 
birds  were  an  old  story  to  the  pointer, 
whereas  the  Brookfield  dog  was  more 
familiar  with  the  haunts  of  quail. 

Setter  men  thought  of  the  white  ghost 
with  his  uncanny  nose,  and  smiled.  Their 
champion  was  to  have  a  month's  work  on 
the  prairies  before  the  battle. 

"And,"  said  Scott  Benson,  "if  they  just 
let  him  go,  in  a  month  he'll  be  an  old 
106 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


friend  to  every  chicken  from  the  Gulf  to 
Canada." 

On  one  subject,  however,  everyone  was 
in  accord.  Dog  men  all  over  the  land 
had  learned  to  hate  the  owner  of  the 
pointer.  For  years  he  had  bred  dogs — 
good  dogs,  they  regretfully  admitted — 
and  at  last  fate  had  breathed  the  spirit 
of  a  champion  into  one  of  them.  Fur- 
thermore, he  was  a  great  champion.  This 
they  admitted,  also,  but  with  more  than 
regrets.  That  Emmett  Fry  should  own 
such  a  dog  was  beyond  mere  regretting — 
it  was  a  calamity. 

Chuck  Sellers  relieved  himself  on  the 
subject  with  a  few  well-chosen  words. 

"There's  more  class  in  the  tip  of  that 
pointer's  tail,"  he  said,  "than  Emmett's 
got  in  his  whole  blame  carcass." 

Since  the  tail  of  Champion  Windem 
Bang  was  needle  pointed,  this  was  re- 
107 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

peated  broadcast  and  found  much  favor. 

All  this  was  man's  talk,  and  not  for 
women's  ears,  so  the  mistress  of  Brook- 
field  heard  no  word  of  it;  but  she  felt  cold 
steel  in  the  air  when  Emmett  Fry  was 
mentioned,  and  it  puzzled  her, 

"You  don't  like  this  man  Fry,  do  you?" 
she  said  to  Gregory  one  morning,  and  felt 
his  arm  stiffen  within  her  own. 

"I  don't  know  him,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield  shortly.  "Are  you  sure  you 
want  to  go  out  to  this  match.  Chief?  It's 
a  hard  trip." 

"I'm  going,"  she  stated.  "IVe  never 
seen  Dumb-Bell  run,  you  know,  and  this 
may  be  my  last  chance.  .  .  .  Why  don't 
you  like  him?"  she  asked,  returning  to  the 
charge. 

"I  don't  know  him,"  he  repeated.  "How 
can  I  like  him  or  dislike  him?" 

She  knew  this  to  be  an  evasion,  but  let 
108 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


it  pass,  and  questioned  Peter  the  next  day. 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  Mr.  Fry?"  she 
asked  him. 

Peter  was  dusting  a  puppy  with  flea 
powder.  He  straightened  up  and  spoke 
with  difficulty,  for  flea  powder  is  as  cer- 
tain in  its  action  as  snuff. 

"A-choo-o !"  he  said.  "Just  plain  skunk 
.  .  .  a-choo-o!  .  .  .  beggin'  your  par- 
don I" 

"What  has  he  done,  what  does  he  do, 
that  makes  you  say  that,  Peter?"  she 
questioned. 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "I'U  tell  you  one 
thing  he  done.  Six  years  ago,  come  No- 
vember, Emmett  Fry  starts  a  pointer 
derby,  by  Damascus  out  of  Old  Rose,  in 
the  Continental.  'E  was  a  nice-goin'  pup 
but  a  leetle  gun-shy — just  flinchy-like.  'E 
run  a  good  'eat  an'  it  was  between  'im 
an'  a  young  bitch  by  Gladstone  in  the 
109 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

finals.  The  judges  were  'ard  put  to  it  for 
a  decision,  but  they  noticed  that  Emmett 
don't  stand  close  to  'is  pup  when  'e  fires. 

"  *At  his  next  point,  Mr.  Fry,  shoot 
directly  over  your  dog,'  they  tells  Em- 
mett, an'  he  done  so.  At  the  crack  of  the 
gun  the  pup  breaks  for  the  woods,  'is  tail 
between  'is  legs — an'  that  lets  'im  out. 

"Well,  Emmett  goes  into  the  woods 
after  'is  pup,  an'  next  we  'ear  'is  gun — 
both  barrels.  When  'e  comes  out  of  the 
woods,  .  .  .  'e's  alone.  *An','  says  Em- 
mett, *  'e'U  not  run  away  from  a  gun  no 
more.* " 

Peter  caught  up  the  can  of  flea  powder, 
and  bent  abruptly  to  his  work. 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Gregory.  "The  beast 
.  .  .  the  beast!" 

And  presently  the  master  of  Brookfield 
looked  up  from  his  desk  into  a  white  and 
quivering  face. 

110 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


"Good  Lord,  Chief  I"  he  said,  "what's 
happened?" 

"You  knew  about  it  all  along  I"  she  ac- 
cused. "And  let  Dumb-Bell  meet  his  dog 
.  .  .  a  man  like  that!  How  could  you 
do  such  a  thing  I  .  ,  .  How  could  you  I" 

"I've  never  met  this  man,"  the  master 
of  Brookfield  said  slowly.  "When  he  did 
.  ,  .  what  he  did,  I  used  what  influence 
I  had  to  have  his  entries  refused  by  all 
field  trial  clubs  in  America.  Since  then 
I  have  made  it  a  point  never  to  enter  a 
dog  where  he  was  a  competitor.  But  now 
— it  is  a  question  of  setter  against  pointer ; 
and  because  I  believe  in  the  setter  as  the 
greatest  of  all  bird  dogs,  and  many  men 
agree  with  me  and  look  to  my  dog  to 
prove  it,  we  owe  it  to  them  to  beat  this 
pointer — if  we  can.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 
Ill 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

"What  about  the  thousand  dollars 
you  may  win  from  him?" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  regarded  her 
gravely.  Then  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched  ever  so  little. 

"Why,"  he  said,  with  a  bow,  "you  may 
have  that,  Chief." 

She  had  him  by  the  coat  lapels  in  an 
instant,  and  did  her  futile  best  to  shake 
him. 

"I'll  tear  it  up  I"  she  said,  between  her 
teeth. 

"Indeed?"  said  Gregory.  "And  what 
about  that  family  on  Rock  Ridge  who 
haven't  a  shoe  to  their  back,  and  the 
lame  man  who  needs  a  wooden  leg  or 
an  aeroplane  or  something,  and  the  wom- 
an who  has  delirium  trem —  Excuse 
me,  it's  her  husband — isn't  it?  And  that 
girl  who  should  have  her  voice  culti- 
vated, and — «r — ^all  the  rest  of  'em?" 
112 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


The  mistress  of  Brookfield  knitted  her 
brows  in  thought. 

"They  won't  get  a  cent  of  it!"  she  an- 
nounced at  last.  "If  Dumb-Bell  wins  it, 
he  will  send  it  to  the  S.  P.  C.  Al" 

The  hotel  at  Belmont,  North  Dakota, 
was  packed  to  bursting.  Its  occupants 
lifted  up  their  voices  and  discussed  bird 
dogs,  past,  present,  and  to  come.  The 
noise  was  bewildering.  From  a  little 
distance  it  sounded  like  the  roar  of  fall- 
ing waters,   and  seemed   as  endless. 

Back  in  the  kennels  it  was  compara- 
tively quiet.  Derbys  might  bay  a  neigh- 
bor, old  veterans  might  rustle  the  straw 
as  they  dreamed  of  whirring  birds;  but 
though  the  match  between  Brookfield 
Dumb-Bell  and  Windem  Bang  was  to 
be  run  as  a  final  to  the  Great  Western 
Trials,  and  a  hundred  dogs  were  all 
113 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

about  them,  Peter  spoke  almost  in  a 
whisper  to  Bill  Ramsey  as  they  exam- 
ined the  white  ghost  by  lantern  light. 

"I  don't  like  it!"  said  Peter.  " 'E 
never  ate  a  bite.  ...  'Is  eyes  don't  look 
good  to  me,  neither." 

"Pshaw,  Pete!"  said  Ramsey.  "There's 
nothin'  wrong  with  him.  He  knows 
why  he's  here  as  well  as  you  an'  me. 
He's  excited,  that's  all.  Why,  look  how 
you  passed  up  them  ham  an'  eggs  your- 
self tonight  1  Let  him  alone — let  him 
get  his  rest!" 

"Feel  'is  nose!"  said  Peter.  "An' 
why  don't  'e  lie  down  like  'e'd  ought?" 

Ramsey  took  Peter  by  the  arm. 

"Come  on  out  of  here !"  he  urged.  "If 
a  big  mutt  was  to  keep  a-rubbin'  at  your 
nose  you  wouldn't  go  to  sleep,  neither. 
He'll  run  his  race  if  you  let  him  alone. 
If  you  mess  with  him  all  night  Emmett'll 
114 


DuMb- Bell's  Check 


beat  me  tomorrow.  I've  got  charge  of 
this  dog  .  .  .  now,  come  on  out  of  here!" 

So  Peter,  with  a  last  troubled  look  at 
the  suspiciously  bright  eyes  of  the  Brook- 
field  champion,  followed  the  handler 
from  the  kennels;  and  Dumb-Bell 
dropped  his  head  on  his  paws  to  pass 
the  night  in  a  twitching  and  uneasy 
slumber. 

A  pale  blue  sky  appeared  next  morn- 
ing and  hung  above  an  endless  rolling 
stubble.  Two  months  before  this  stubble 
had  been  wheat,  a  golden  guaranty  that 
North  Dakota  could  put  bread  into  the 
mouths  of  half  a  continent.  But  the 
gold  had  been  garnered  and  now  in  its 
place  was  a  lesser  metal,  for  the  stubble 
was  heavy  with  frost  and  the  rising  sun 
had  turned  it  to  a  plain  of  glistening 
silver. 

Calm  to  majesty  was  this  plain  of  sil- 
115 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

ver,  unruffled  by  the  fact  that  it  would 
soon  become  a  battlefield.  The  last  day 
of  the  Great  Western  Trials  had  ar- 
rived; two  champions  would  meet  that 
morning,  and  over  the  stubble  would 
prove  the  mettle  of  their  sires. 

When  the  sun  was  an  hour  high,  black 
dots  appeared  at  the  far  edge  of  the 
plain.  Presently  they  became  horsemen 
— ^hundreds  of  horsemen — with  a  sprin- 
kling of  buggies,  buckboards,  and  even 
an  automobile  or  so,  strung  about  a 
wagon  from  which  came,  now  and  then, 
a  beseeching  whine. 

This  whine  was  the  voice  of  Champion 
Windem  Bang,  who  gazed  out  through 
the  slats  that  penned  him  in  and  longed 
to  be  away. 

His  small  rival  was  quieter.  The 
white  ghost  knew  what  all  these  horse- 
men meant;  he  knew  what  was  expected 
116 


Dumb'BelVs  Check 


of  him  that  day;  but  he  knew  that  his 
body  ached,  that  his  throat  was  dry,  and 
that  the  rolling  stubble  called  but  faintly 
to  him.  The  day  before  he  had  eaten  a 
piece  of  tainted  meat  no  bigger  than  a 
lump  of  sugar,  and  now  it  was  better 
to  lie  quietly  in  the  soft  straw  than  to 
pit  one's  speed  and  nose  against  another 
over  those  long,  long  miles. 

So  the  gulf  which  never  can  be  crossed, 
between  the  human  animal  and  his  most 
paissionately  devoted  friend,  was  between 
the  little  setter  and  fair  play.  One  word 
would  have  told  these  humans,  one  word 
— and  yet  it  was  denied  him.  He  would 
be  judged  by  what  he  did  that  day, 
without  it.  .  .  .  And  so  he  lay  in  the 
wagon  and  grinned  a  hopeless  grin  when 
the  big  pointer  yelped  reproaches  at 
those  about  him,  or  scratched  and  bit 
at  the  slats. 

117 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

An  iron-gray  man  on  a  big  roan  horse 
drew  rein  at  last. 

"I  think  we  might  put  them  down 
here,  Frank,"  he  said.  "What  time  is 
it?" 

A  man  riding  beside  him  nodded  and 
took  out  his  watch. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Fry!  All  right,  Mr. 
Ramsey!"  he  called.  "We'll  let  them  go 
at  eight  sharp — ^that  gives  you  five  min- 
utes." 

It  was  only  after  a  struggle  that  his 
handler  snapped  the  leash  on  Windem 
Bang.  When  this  was  done,  the  pointer 
soared  out  of  the  wagon  with  a  yelp,  and 
bounded  like  a  rubber  ball  to  the  end  of 
his  tether.  Emmett  Fry  threw  his  weight 
against  the  leash  and  smiled. 

Chuck  Sellers  saw  the  smile,  and 
leaned  down  confidentially  from  the  sad- 
dle. 

118 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


"Better  save  some  of  that,  Emmettl" 
he  advised.     "You'll  need  it." 

The  handler  looked  up  with  a  sneer. 

"A  hundred  even  on  him!"  he  said. 

"Got  you!"  said  Chuck  cheerfully. 
"Come  again!" 

"Make  it  two!"  said  Fry. 

"Got  you!"  Chuck  repeated.  "Are 
you  through?"  But  the  pointer  had 
dragged  his  handler  out  of  earshot,  and 
Chuck  turned  to  Ramsey.  "You  heard 
that,  Bill?"  he  asked. 

Ramsey  nodded  as  he  snapped  the 
leash  on  the  white  ghost. 

"We'll  give  you  a  run  for  your 
money,"  he  promised,  and  led  his  dog  to 
the  starting  point. 

With  the  feel  of  the  stubble  under- 
foot, with  the  big  pointer  straining  at 
his  leash  beside  him,  Dumb-Bell's  spirits 
revived  a  little.  He  was  better;  there 
119 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

was  no  doubt  of  that.  The  water  that 
Ramsey  had  given  him  a  moment  before 
had  cooled  his  throat.  His  legs  felt 
stronger,  too.  He  even  wanted  to  run. 
He  would  run,  that  was  sure!  Fast 
enough,  perhaps,  to  beat  an  ordinary 
dog.  But  Windem  Bang,  big,  splendid 
Windem  Bang,  was  not  an  ordinary 
dog.  And  in  addition  to  the  running  the 
white  ghost  must  read  the  crisp  wind 
that  sang  across  a  thousand  miles  of 
prairie,  and  miss  no  word  of  its  mes- 
sage. 

The  little  setter  lifted  his  head.  His 
nostrils  quivered  as  they  explored  the 
wind.  Then  he  knew  that  his  nose  would 
betray  him.  It  was  no  longer  the  nose 
of  a  champion,  but  a  dull,  uncertain 
thing — the  kind  with  which  ordinary 
shooting  dogs  go  slowly  and  make  mis- 
takes. As  he  heard  the  "Get  away!"  of 
120 


Dumb'BelVs  Check 


his  handler,  which  is  the  field  trial  call 
to  battle,  he  grinned  his  hopeless  grin. 

When  his  leash  is  slipped,  a  field  trial 
dog  races  straight  away.  He  is  driven  to 
this  first  exultant  rush  by  an  overwhelm- 
ing energy.  A  pair  of  high-class  dogs 
make  this  preliminary  flight  a  trial  of 
pure  speed.  It  was  the  custom  of  the 
white  ghost  to  give  his  rival  fifty  feet  or 
so  and  then  sweep  by  him. 

That  Windem  Bang  could  go  like  a 
comet  made  no  difference  to  him.  Had 
Dumb-Bell  been  himself,  he  would  have 
matched  the  pointer  stride  for  stride, 
with  joy  in  his  heart.  But  now  his  heels 
had  failed  him  and  he  called  on  the  big 
brain  of  Roderigo  that  was  in  his  little 
head.  He  let  Windem  Bang  go  on  alone 
into  the  far  distance,  while  he  shot  away 
to  the  left. 

He  saw  a  patch  of  green  alfalfa  as 
8  121 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

he  ran,  and  he  headed  for  it.  It  was  a 
hkely  place  for  chickens ;  there  was  a  good 
half  mile  of  it  and  he  went  down  the 
lower  edge,  his  head  well  up,  as  fast  as 
he  could  go. 

But  Windem  Bang  did  not  run  hlindly 
long.  He,  too,  had  brains;  a  champion 
always  has.  When  he  found  himself 
alone,  he  looked  about  him.  Then  he 
caught  the  green  of  the  alfalfa,  and  he 
swung  in  a  magnificent  curve  to  strike 
the  lower  edge,  down  wind.  He  was 
moving  like  a  race  horse,  directly  behind 
the  ghost.  At  each  terrific  bound  he 
made  he  cut  down  the  distance  between 
them. 

Dumb-Bell  heard  him  coming.  He 
must  get  wind  of  the  covey  somewhere 
in  the  green  alfalfa  before  the  pointer 
passed  him!  He  put  every  ounce  of 
strength  he  had  into  his  running.  He 
122 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


no  longer  heard  the  pointer.  Goodl 
He  could  still  run,  it  seemed.  Then  he 
heard,  far  away,  another  sound.  It  was 
the  spectators  shouting.  He  turned  his 
head,  and  there  was  Windem  Bang,  on 
the  very  spot  where  he  himself  had 
passed  ten  seconds  before,  tense  as  steel, 
as  moveless  as  a  stone. 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  what  that 
panther  crouch  of  the  big  pointer  meant. 
From  his  eager  lifted  muzzle,  to  his  stiff 
and  lancelike  tail,  every  line  of  him  said: 
"Birds!" 

Dumb-Bell's  heart  was  bitter  within 
him  as  he  whirled  and  acknowledged  his 
rival's  find  with  an  honor  point. 

"Missed  'em  I"  burst  out  a  pointer  man. 
"Missed  'em  clean!  There's  your  setter 
champion  for  you!  Oh,  mammal  Did 
you  see  that  Bang  dog  nail  'em?" 

"He — he  didn't  d-do  very  well  that 
123 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

time,  did  he,  Jim?"  said  the  mistress  of 
Brookfield,  as  their  buckboard  swayed 
and  bounded  toward  the  pointing  dogs. 

"No,"  said  Gregory.  "I  don't  under- 
stand it.    It  may  be  a  false  point." 

But  it  wasn't  a  false  point.  Emmett 
Fry  flushed  a  mighty  bevy  of  prairie 
chickens  thirty  feet  ahead  of  Windem 
Bang.  They  rose  like  one  bird,  and 
sailed  off  in  stately  flight  to  scatter  in 
the  stubble  nearly  a  mile  away. 

The  man  on  the  roan  horse  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  two  champions.  Neither 
moved. 

"Send  them  on,  gentlemen!"  he  called 
to  the  handlers.  "We'll  follow  this  covey 
up.  We'll  let  them  work  on  singles  for 
a  while." 

Then  followed  a  terrible  half -hour  for 
Dumb-Bell.  In  the  race  to  the  scattered 
covey  he  was  beaten,  and  he  saw  the 
124 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


pointer  make  a  smashing  find  two  hun- 
dred feet  ahead  of  him.  Once  more  he 
came  to  an  honor  point.  Once  more  a 
yell  of  delight  went  up  from  those  who 
favored  Windem  Bang.  Once  more  the 
setter  men  looked  at  each  other  and  were 
silent. 

And  now  it  was  a  race  among  a  scat- 
tered covey  at  top  speed,  for  champions 
must  catch  the  faint  scent  of  a  lone  bird 
while  going  like  a  rocket;  and  this  takes 
nose,  and  nose,  and  nose,  fine  as  a  hair 
and  certain  as  a  compass  .  .  .  Dumb- 
Bell's  was  hot  with  fever. 

So  he  drove  his  aching  body  along, 
while  Emmett  Fry  called,  "Point, 
Judge!"  again  and  again,  as  his  dog 
cut  down  the  singles  with  swift  preci- 
sion. 

For  Dumb-Bell  the  wind  was  a  blank. 
Had  he  slowed  down  he  might  have  read 
125 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

it,  but  he  was  a  champion,  and  he  must 
make  his  points  high-headed  and  like  a 
flash  of  lighting,  or  not  at  all.  He 
worked  in  a  frenzy,  his  sides  heaving, 
his  eyes  shot  with  blood,  only  to  honor 
Windem  Bang,  who  was  going  faster 
than  he,  and  with  a  razor  nose. 

"Why,  Pete  I"  said  Chuck  Sellers  at 
last  in  wide  amazement.  "They're  goin* 
to  beat  us!" 

Peter  turned  to  him  with  a  set  and 
stony  face. 

"Beat  us!"  he  said.  "An'  why 
wouldn't  they  beat  us?  'E  'asn't  no  more 
nose  than  I  'ave!  I  knowed  it  last  night, 
an'  I  let  Bill  talk  me  out  of  it!  'E's  a 
sick  dog!  An'  we're  tryin'  to  beat  the 
best  pointer  that  ever  lived,  with  'im.  I 
ain't  a  trainer,  I'm  a  bum!  An'  Bill! 
,  .  .  They'd  ought  to  shoot  'im!  'E's 
sick,  I  tell  you  .  ,  .  Vs  sick  this  min- 
126 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


lite!"  He  turned  his  horse  and  galloped 
back  to  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

"  'Ave  him  took  up,  sir  I"  he  said. 
"  'E's  off — away  off — *e  ain't  got  nothin'. 
'Ave  him  took  up!" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  hesitated. 

"It  won't  do,  Peter,"  he  said  finally. 
"We  should  have  known  that  before  they 
started." 

"/  knowed  it!"  said  Peter.  "I  knowed 
it  last  night!  I'm  a  big  slob — beggin' 
your  pardon — I  ain't  fit  to  'andle  'untin' 
dogs,  let  alone  'im!  You  can  fire  me  to- 
morrow, sir;  but  take  the  little  dog  up! 
'E's  sick — we  may  be  'armin'  of  'imi" 

They  had  come  to  a  halt  while  a 
chicken  was  flushed  to  the  credit  of  Win- 
dem  Bang.  Peter's  voice  had  risen  to 
a  wail,  and  many  heard  what  he  had 
said. 

"That's  right,  Gregory!"  caUed  a 
127 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 


pointer  man.  "Take  him  up!  He's  got 
no  business  with  that  kind  of  a  dog. 
He's  sick,  all  right,  and  gettin'  sicker! 
.  .  .  Take  him  up!" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  felt  a  slen- 
der hand  creep  into  his  own.  He 
squeezed  it  slightly,  and  smiled  a  grim 
smile. 

"He'll  have  to  take  a  beating,  Peter," 
he  said  quietly.    "Go  on,  driver!" 

So  Dumb-Bell  took  his  beating  for 
half  of  the  three  hours  that  he  must 
run,  and  a  fearful  beating  it  was.  For 
an  hour  and  thirty  minutes  he  ran,  gasp- 
ing for  air,  slobbering  at  the  mouth, 
while  his  nose  told  him  nothing. 

Then  as  he  passed  a  patch  of  ragweed 
he  caught  a  faint  trace  on  the  wind.  He 
turned  like  a  flash  and  froze  into  a 
statue.  He  had  taken  a  desperate 
chance  of  making  a  false  point.  He  had 
128 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


acted  with  the  certainty  of  a  good  nose 
when  he  was  far  from  certain.  He 
grinned  with  anxiety  as  he  waited  for  his 
handler,  while  faint,  very  faint,  came 
that  trace  on  the  wind. 

"Steady,  boy!"  said  Ramsey.  An  in- 
stant later  twenty  feathered  bombs  shot 
up  from  the  stubble  and  sailed  away. 

"Some  find  I"  said  Chuck  Sellers, 
brightening.  "How  does  that  suit  you, 
Pete?" 

But  Peter  did  not  reply.  He  was 
watching  a  white  streak  flash  along  the 
stubble,  neck  and  neck  with  Windem 
Bang. 

This  was  the  turning  of  the  tide.  The 
violent  effort  he  had  made  on  courage 
alone  was  the  little  setter's  salvation. 
His  pounding  heart  had  at  last  cleared 
his  blood  of  the  ptomaine  that  had 
drugged  him. 

i2d 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

As  he  raced  for  the  scattered  covey 
he  felt  a  new  vitality  surge  within  him. 
.  .  .  Ten  minutes  more  and  Dumb-Bell 
was  himself  again — a  white  ghost  with  a 
magic  nose. 

But  Windem  Bang  was  a  great  dog, 
backed  by  a  tremendous  lead.  Only  a 
miracle  could  save  the  day  for  Brook- 
field.  The  white  ghost  knew  this  as  well 
as  those  who  watched,  and  from  that 
moment  he  became  a  miracle  in  nose  and 
range  and  speed.  Windem  Bang  was 
still  going  like  the  wind — few  dogs  could 
have  held  him  even.  But  now  ahead  of 
him,  always  ahead  of  him,  was  a  white 
and  fleeting  thing  that  skimmed  the  stub- 
ble with  no  apparent  effort,  and  found 
birds  in  all  directions. 

The  big  pointer  was  puzzled.  For  the 
first  tune  in  his  life  he  was  being  out- 
paced, and  he  couldn't  understand  it. 
130 


Dumb-BelVs  Check 


He  had  run  rings  around  this  little  setter 
until  now!  He  would  do  it  again,  he 
told  himself — then  every  sinew  in  his 
body  drank  deep  of  his  vitality  while  he 
ran  as  he  had  never  run  before. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  Windem  Bang 
began  to  wonder.  A  shadow  came  and 
dimmed  the  eager  light  in  his  eyes.  The 
shadow  w^as  fatigue,  and  it  frightened 
him. 

He  fled  from  it  in  a  tremendous 
burst  of  speed,  found  a  bevy,  and  went 
on.  But  the  shadow  grew  deeper.  It 
was  blotting  out  all  the  fire,  all  the  bril- 
liancy of  his  efforts.  In  nose  and  heels 
and  heart  he  felt  it  now,  and  he  looked 
anxiously  ahead.  Despair  seized  him  as 
he  looked;  for  Brookfield  Dumb-Bell 
was  going  like  a  driven  spirit,  immune 
from  the  weakness  of  flesh. 

"Call  in  your  dogs,  gentlemen!"  said 
131 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

the  man  on  the  roan  house.  "They  have 
been  down  three  hours." 

In  another  moment  he  was  the  center 
of  a  crowding  mass  of  horsemen  that 
grew  larger  every  instant. 

"Who  wins?"  they  howled.  "Who 
wins?"  And  many  answered  the  ques- 
tion themselves. 

The  man  on  the  roan  horse  held  up 
his  hand  for  silence,  and  obtained  it. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "the  judges 
have  decided  that  this  match,  so  far,  is  a 
draw.     We — "     He  got  no  further. 

"Draw!  Hell!  The  setter  couldn't 
smell  nothin*  for  two  hours!"  .  .  .  "Two 
hours!  Forget  it!  Look  what  he  done 
all  the  last  end!  The  setter  wins!"  .  .  . 
"You're  a  liar!"  .  .  .  "Get  down  off 
that  horse  an'  say  it  again!" 

At  last  quiet  was  restored. 

"As  I  said  before,  gentlemen,  this 
132 


Dumb -Bell's  Check 


match,  as  it  now  stands,  is  a  draw.  It 
becomes  a  matter  of  stamina.  The 
judges  ask  that  the  dogs  go  on  until  we 
can  render  a  decision  1" 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield  when  Peter  brought  him  the 
word. 

But  Emmett  Fry  faced  the  judges 
with  the  panting  Windem  Bang  on  leash 
beside  him. 

"Do  you  think  these  are  huntin*  dogs?" 
he  inquired.  "Do  you  want  *em  to  go 
all  day?  This  was  a  three-hour  match. 
I've  run  it  and  won  it,  and  I  want  a 
decision  now!  I  won't  turn  this  dog 
loose  again  for  nobody!" 

The  man  on  the  roan  horse  looked  at 
Emmett  coldly. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Fry,"  he  said.     "If 
you  refuse  to  go  on,  we  shall  decide  now 
— in  favor  of  the  setter." 
133 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

The  handler's  face  became  gray  with 
rage.  He  took  a  step  forward,  opened 
his  hps,  closed  them  again,  and  turned 
abruptly  to  Bill  Ramsey. 

"I'm  ready  whenever  you  are,"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

Ramsey  stooped  and  cast  off  his  dog. 

"Get  awayl"  he  said,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand — and  the  white  ghost  was  gone. 

An  instant  later  Windem  Bang  flung 
himself  across  the  stubble  at  the  top  of 
his  clip,  and  the  battle  was  on  again. 

The  short  rest  had  helped  the  big 
pointer.  He  went  away  with  a  rush. 
For  twenty  minutes  more  he  went,  a 
splendid  thing  to  see.  Then  suddenly  a 
red  darkness  fell  about  him.  It  was  hot 
and  suffocating;  it  filled  his  nostrils  so 
that  his  breath  came  in  struggling  gasps. 

It  was  hard  to  go  on  in  this  darkness. 
But  champions  must  go  on  and  on  until 
134 


Dumb 'Bell's  Check 


they  hear  a  whistle.  He  went  on  until 
a  weight,  an  immense  weight,  seemed  to 
fall  across  his  loins.  It  was  not  fair  to 
make  him  carry  such  a  weight,  he 
thought,  and  faltered  in  his  stride.  .  ,  , 
The  voice  of  his  handler  came  like  the 
lash  of  a  whip: 

"You  Bangl — Go  on  I"  it  said. 

Yes,  he  must  go  on.  He  had  forgot- 
ten for  a  moment.  He  saw  a  swale  ahead 
and  to  the  right.  Its  edge  was  dark  with 
ragweed,  and  he  plunged  toward  it.  The 
swale  was  half  a  mile  away,  and  he  called 
on  the  last  of  his  strength  to  reach  it. 
He  was  nearly  there  when  a  white  flash 
shot  from  the  left,  cut  in  ahead  of  him, 
and  stiffened  into  marble.  Windem 
Bang  lurched  to  a  point  in  acknowledg- 
ment, swaying  where  he  stood. 

This  was  the  end.  As  the  birds  were 
flushed,  the  pointer  staggered  on — ^he 
135 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

didn't  know  where.  The  voice  of  his 
handler  had  lost  its  meaning.  He  must 
go  on,  he  knew  that.  So  he  went — in  an 
aimless  circle. 

The  man  on  the  roan  horse  rode  for- 
ward to  the  pointer's  handler.  His  eyes 
were  full  of  pity. 

"You  have  a  great  dog,  Mr.  Fry,"  he 
said,  "but — call  him  in,  please." 

"Damn  his  heart  .  .  .  damn  his  yel- 
low heart  I"  said  Emmett  Fry,  and  blew 
his  whistle. 

Windem  Bang  swung  toward  the 
sound  of  it,  and  came  in.  He  was  too 
far  gone  to  dodge  the  loaded  butt  of  the 
heavy  dog  whip,  and  he  went  down  with- 
out a  sound  when  it  descended  across 
his  back.  Nor  did  he  make  much  of  an 
outcry  as  it  descended  again  and  again. 
Only  a  moan  came  from  him.  He  was 
too  exhausted  to  do  more.  ,  .  . 
136 


Dumb-BelVs  Check 


The  mistress  of  Brookfield  gave  a 
choking  cry,  flung  herself  from  the 
buckboard,  and  rushed  forward  like  a 
fury.  Emmett  Fry  heard  her  coming, 
and  looked  up  blindly. 

"The  dirty  hound  quit!"  he  said.  "He 
had  it  won  .  .  .  the  dirty  hound  .  ,  . 
but  he  quit!" 

"You  vile  beast!"  flamed  the  mistress 
of  Brookfield.  "Don't  you  dare  touch 
him  again!"  She  dropped  in  the  stub- 
ble beside  Windem  Bang,  throwing  her 
coat  over  him  as  she  did  so. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  lifted  her 
up. 

"This  won't  do.  Chief,"  he  said,  and 
all  but  carried  her  to  the  buckboard. 

"Oh,  Jim!"  she  pleaded.  "He  tried  so 
hard!" 

Then  a  thumping  sound,  followed  by  a 
moaning  whimper,  came  to  her.  She 
10  137 


Dumb -Bell  of  BrookHeld 

covered  her  ears  and  sank  in  a  heap  to 
the  floor  of  the  buckboard. 

"If  Dumb-Bell  had  only  lost!"  she 
sobbed.  "If  Dumb-Bell  had  only 
lost.  ..." 

"Never  mind,  little  Chief  I"  said  the 
master  of  Brookfield.  ^'I'll  take  care  of 
that." 

He  strode  back  until  he  faced  the 
owner  of  Windem  Bang. 

"I  have  taken — a  fancy — to  your  dog 
..."  he  managed  to  say,  but  could 
get  no  further.  Suddenly  he  tore  a 
checkbook  from  his  pocket  and  wrote 
with  a  shaking  hand.  He  held  out  a 
signed  check  for  the  other  to  see.  "Fill 
it  in — quick — for  God's  sakel"  he  said. 

No  one  will  ever  know  what  Cham- 
pion Windem  Bang  cost  the  master  of 
Brookfield.     He  said  no  word  to  any 
138 


Dumb-BelVs  Check 


man  as  he  led  the  first  pointer  he  had 
ever  owned  to  the  buckboard.  But  as 
he  drove  away  a  pair  of  dog  eyes,  trust- 
ing, faithful,  looked  up  into  his  face,  and 
a  slim  arm  went  about  his  neck.  So, 
perhaps,  everything  considered,  he  did 
not  pay  too  much. 

A  few  days  later  the  secretary  of  a 
certain  benevolent  society  received  the 
following  letter: 

Being  heartily  in  sympathy  with  the  work 
you  do,  it  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  inclose 
my  check  for  one  thousand  dollars. 

Faithfully  yours, 
Champion  Bkgokfield  Dumb-Bell. 


A  PERMANENT  INTRUDER 


A  PERMANENT  INTRUDER 

THE  last  thirty  miles  had  been  slid 
over  somehow,  and  the  car, 
sheathed  in  the  mud  of  five  counties, 
shot  between  brick  gateposts  to  decent 
footing  at  last.  I  went  into  high  gear — 
for  the  first  time  in  hours,  it  seemed  to 
me — ^with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  mile  spin 
up  the  graveled  drive  was  a  humming 
flash,  and  soon  I  was  getting  out  of  my 
coat  in  the  dusky  paneled  hall  which 
bisects  the  house,  clean  as  a  knife  cut, 
from  front  to  back. 

The  man  disappeared  with  my  bags 
after  telling  me  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greg- 
ory were  out  on  the  place  somewhere 
"huntin'   mushrooms."     I   went  to  the 
143 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

dining-room,  poured  myself  a  drink  of 
raw  Scotch,  and  then  drifted,  as  one 
does  at  Brookfield,  to  the  living-room 
with  its  big  open  fire.  I  was  halfway 
across  the  room  when  there  came  a 
hoarse  rumble  from  the  fireplace  that 
nailed  my  feet  to  the  floor. 

**That-a-boy?"  I  said  cheerfully,  and 
took  a  step  toward  the  fireplace. 

There  was  another  cavernous  rumble. 

"Now  see  here,"  I  said  with  authority. 
"You  stop  this  nonsense." 

A  gargoyle  head  was  lifted  from  the 
bricks  before  the  fireplace,  a  pair  of 
bloodshot  eyes  were  rolled  in  my  direc- 
tion and  the  rumble  ceased.  The  eyes 
inspected  me  lazily  and — I  was  glad  to 
note  this — without  malice.  Presently 
thump,  thump  went  a  clublike  tail  on 
the  bricks.  At  the  invitation  I  ad- 
vanced. 

144 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

He  was  an  astonishing  thing  to  find 
in  his  present  surroundings.  He  was 
huge,  he  was  a  tawny  yellow,  he  had 
lost  an  ear.  He  had  been  arrived  at 
through  the  haphazard  matings  of  bull 
terriers,  English  bulls,  mastiffs,  and 
heaven  knows  what  else.  Yet  here  he 
was,  stretched  comfortably  before  the 
living-room  fire  at  Brookfield,  where 
chickens,  pigeons,  cats,  cattle,  horses, 
and,  above  all,  dogs,  show  an  impeccable 
line  of  ancestors  who  made  no  steps 
aside. 

He  was  a  mystery,  a  friendly  mystery, 
after  that  first  deep-throated  challenge, 
and  my  curiosity  grew  as  I  examined 
the  unlovely  bulk  of  him.  I  wondered 
in  what  disreputable  proceedings  he  had 
lost  his  ear.  I  wondered  why  four  of 
his  lower  front  teeth  were  gone.  Most 
of  all  I  wondered  at  his  serene  content- 
145 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

ment;  at  his  air  of  being  perfectly  at 
home. 

At  last  I  pushed  his  bullet  head  aside, 
pulled  his  one  good  ear,  gave  him  a  solid 
thump  on  the  ribs,  and  took  my  way  to 
the  kennels,  and  Peter,  for  an  explana- 
tion. 

"Peter,"  I  said,  while  shaking  hands, 
"why  is  that" — I  hesitated — "bulldog  al- 
lowed in  the  living-room?" 

Peter  took  his  stumpy  fingers  from 
mine  and  grinned. 

"You  'ad  'ard  work  gettin'  it  out, 
didn't  you?"  he  said.  "Oh,  'e  belongs 
'ere  all  right.  'Aven't  you  seen  the 
people?" 

"No,"  I  replied.  "They  don't  know 
I've  come.  He  looks  like  bad  medicine. 
I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  he'd  take 
hold  of  one  of  the  setters." 

"I  was,"  said  Peter  thoughtfully — "at 
146 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

first.  I  put  up  a  'ell  of  a  row  about  'im. 
'E  come  'ere  all  along  of  horchids." 

"Orchids!"  I  repeated.  "What  have 
orchids  got  to  do  with  it?" 

Peter  indicated  a  sawhorse. 

"  *Ave  a  seat,"  he  invited,  and  wadded 
a  startling  handful  of  fine  cut  into  his 
mouth. 

"You  know,"  he  began,  after  a  neces- 
sary pause,  "the  missus  was  all  for  raisin' 
these  'ere  horchids  awhile  back?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "we  'ad  our  trou- 
bles till  it  was  over.  Whilst  we  was 
goin'  through  this  horchid  business  every- 
thing else  was  forgot.  Why,  she 
wouldn't  come  'ere  once  a  month,  an' 
my  best  litters  by  Dumb-Bell  bein' 
whelped  at  the  time,  I'd  go  up  to  the 
'ouse  after  breakfast  and  I'd  say:  *Beg- 
gin'  your  pardon,  mem,  but  Sue  Whit- 
147 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

stone  'as  nine  grand  ones  by  the  little 
dog." 

"  'Yes,'  she'd  say;  'that's  fine,  Peter. 
I'U  come  down  in  a  little  while — ^just 
as  soon  as  I  see  Jerry.' 

"Then  she'd  start  for  the  green'ouses, 
an'  'er  an*  ole  Jerry  'ud  'ave  their  'eads 
together  the  rest  of  the  day. 

"For  all  Jerry's  sweatin'  an'  stewin', 
though,  an'  'er  an'  'im  readin'  books  an' 
such,  it  seemed  like  the  horchids  was  too 
shifty  for  'em.  Jerry  'as  been  a  good 
gardener  in  'is  time,  but  'e  'adn't  never 
messed  with  horchids  an'  'e  couldn't  seem 
to  get  the  'ang  of  'em  somehow. 

"Right  in  the  midst  of  it  comes  wood- 
cock season,  an'  I  got  the  missus'  Lamp- 
ton  20  oiled  up  nice  for  'er.  The  day 
before  the  season  opened  the  mister  tells 
me  we'll  go  over  to  the  big  'ollow  after 
cock  next  momin*. 

14)8 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"  'We'll  take  Bang  and  Beau,'  'e  says. 
•We'll  start  at  five  o'clock/ 

"  'I've  been  workin'  a  pair  of  young 
Dumb-Bells  on  cock,'  I  says;  *an'  while 
they're  not  finished  yet  they  'ave  sweet 
noses  on  'em — that  Bang  sets  a  'ot  pace 
for  the  missus.' 

"  'She's  not  going,'  'e  says.  *  She's  too 
busy  to  get  away.' 

"  'Well,  I  'ardly  expected  it,*  I  says. 
*She  'asn't  looked  in  this  direction  for  a 
month.' 

"  'Try  flowers,  Peter,'  'e  says,  grinnin' 
at  me.  'Why  don't  you  plant  some  nice 
geraniums  along  the  runways?* 

"Me  an'  the  mister  'unted  cock  alone 
all  that  week  an'  the  next.  One  noon 
we're  'aving  a  bite  at  the  'ickory  grove 
spring. 

"  '  'Ow  long  now,'  I  says,  *do  you  think 
it'll  last?' 

149 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

"'Last?'  *e  says.  'Why,  ten  days 
more,  of  course.' 

"  *I  don't  mean  the  season,'  I  says.  *I 
mean  horchids.' 

"  'E  was  just  reachin'  for  a  sandwich, 
but  'e  didn't  take  it.  Instead  'e  rolls 
in  the  leaves. 

"  'Don't  ask  me,'  'e  says,  settin'  up 
with  dead  leaves  in  'is  'air.  'She's  sent 
to  Scotland  for  an  expert.  'E'U  be  'ere 
soon,  I  fancy.  Then  we'll  see  some 
regular  horchids.  Cheer  up,  Peter;  per- 
haps she'll  let  us  wear  one  now  and 
then.' 

"Well,  it  was  so.  One  day  'ere  comes 
a  specimin  up  the  drive — it's  a  long- 
necked  Scotchman  with  reddish  'air  like. 
'E  'as  a  shiny  black  'amper  in  one  'and 
an'  a  bundle  tied  with  rope  in  the  other. 
At  'is  'eels  was  a  yellow-'ided  butcher's 
bull  as  big  as  'e  was  ugly. 
150 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"  'Where,'  I  says  to  'im,  *did  you  find 
little  Buttercup?' 

"  'Mon,'  'e  says,  'will  ye  tell  Missus 
MacGregor  I'm  koom?" 

"'I  will  that,'  I  says.  'I'll  mention 
both  of  you  to  'er.  Stay  'ere  till  I'm 
back/ 

"I  found  the  missus  in  a  green'ouse. 
*Er  sleeves  was  rolled  up  an'  she  'ad 
loam  on  'er  'ands  an'  face. 

"  'Mem,'  I  says,  'your  horchid  man  'as 
come  with  something  that'll  'ave  to  be 
got  off  the  place  in  a  'uny.* 

**  'Bring  him  'ere  to  me,  Peter,'  she 
says;  an'  I  done  so.  But  first  I  'ad  'im 
shut  'is  dog  in  a  runway. 

"When  we  got  to  the  green'ouse  I 
points  inside,  an'  Scotty  an'  'is  'amper 
an'  'is  bundle  all  goes  in.  'E  took  a 
look  at  the  missus. 

"  'Lassie,'  'e  says,  'whur's  your  lady?' 
151 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

"The  missus  gave  me  a  look  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"  'Won't  I  do?'  she  says. 

"I  must  say  this — Scotty,  for  all  'is 
long  neck,  surprised  me.  But  then  'e 
'ad  red  'air.  'E  put  down  'is  'amper 
an'  'is  bundle. 

"  'Aye,  lass,'  'e  says,  'ye'U  do,  though 
soap  an'  watter  would  na  harm  ye.' 
With  that  'e  steps  to  the  missus  an' 
takes  a  kiss  at  'er.  An'  as  I'm  a  livin' 
man  she  never  moved  an  inch. 

"  'Thank  you,'  she  says.  'Now  what 
else  can  I  do  for  you?  I'm  Mrs.  Greg- 
ory.' 

"Scotty  looked  at  'er  close.  'Er  rings 
was  layin'  on  the  window  edge  where 
she'd  been  diggin',  an'  the  flash  of  'em 
in  the  sunlight  caught  'is  eye.  It  'it 
'im  all  at  once.  Man,  I'm  tellin'  you  it 
was  'ard  to  tell  where  'is  face  stopped 
152 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

and  'is  'air  begun.  Next  'e  grabbed  up 
'is  'amper  an'  'is  bundle  an'  out  an'  away 
'e  went. 

"  'E  climbed  the  stone  wall  at  the 
edge  of  the  south  lawn  an'  'is  coat  tails 
goin'  over  it  was  the  last  we  ever  saw 
of  'im.  The  missus  come  to  the  green- 
'ouse  door  an'  watched  'im  streak  it  across 
the  lawn. 

"  *  'E  seems  to  be  going,  Peter,'  she 
says,  an'  'er  eyes  was  dancin'  in  'er 
'ead. 

"  *  'E  'as  that  appearance,  mem,*  I 
says. 

"She  looked  anxious  all  of  a  sudden. 

"  *  'E'll  surely  come  back,  won't  'e?' 
she  says.  *I  paid  his  passage  from  Aber- 
deen.' 

"  'Beggin'  your  pardon,  mem,'  I  says, 
*but  just  at  the  wall  there  'e  didn't  strike 
me,  take  it  all  in  all,  like  a  person  who 
11  158 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

'ad  'opes  of  returning.'    Then  I  remem- 
bered something. 

"  'Oh,  Lord!'  I  says.  *  'E's  went  an' 
left  Buttercup.' 

"  'Buttercup?'  says  the  missus.  'What's 
Buttercup?' 

"  'If  the  horchids,'  I  says,  'could  get 
on  by  themselves,  mem,  whilst  you're 
walkin'  down  to  the  kennels,'  I  says,  'you 
can  see  for  yourself.' 

"She  'adn't  nothing  to  say  to  that  an' 
we  started  for  the  kennels. 

"  'Peter,'  she  says  all  of  a  sudden,  *I 
'aven't  treated  you  very  well  lately.  I'm 
sorry.' 

"  'Who  am  I  to  complain,  mem?'  I 
says. 

"  'I'm  going  for  woodcock  tomorrow,' 
she  says.  'But,  Peter,'  she  says,  'this 
mustn't  get  out,  you  know — I'd  never 
'ear  the  last  of  it.' 

154 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"We'd  got  to  the  runways  by  now. 
Buttercup  was  in  No.  4  an'  I  'eaded 
for  it. 

" '  'Ave  no  fear  of  me,  mem,'  I  says. 
'But,'  I  says,  stoppin'  at  the  runway 
gate,  'what's  to  be  done  with  'im?  'E'll 
need  a  lot  of  explainin'.' 

"Buttercup  was  settin'  on  'is  'unkers, 
lookin'  mournful  an'  lettin'  a  kind  of 
low  thunder  come  off  'is  chest. 

*' ' 'Eavens,  what  a  brute  I'  says  the 
missus.     'Where  did  'e  come  from?' 

"  *  'E  belonged,'  I  says,  'to  our  late 
friend  from  Scotland.  'E  don't  seem  to 
like  the  climate  'ere,  does  'e?' 

"  'This  is  dreadful,  Peter,'  she  says. 
'What'll  we  do  with  'im?' 

"  'Give  him  away  to  somebody,'  I  says, 
'for  a  pet.' 

"  'Peter!'  she  says.    'Open  that  gate  I' 

"  'Yes,  mem,'  I  says,  an'  put  my  'and 
155 


Dumb 'Bell  of  BrooJ<field 

to  the  gate  latch.  With  that  Buttercup 
goes  plumb  crazy.  'E  let  out  a  roar 
'an  'it  the  gate  like  a  tornado. 

"  *0h,  that's  the  way  you  feel  about 
it,  is  it?'  I  says.  Then  I  went  to  the 
carpenter  shop  and  got  me  a  piece  of 
lead  pipe  about  two  foot  long. 

"  *What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  Peter?' 
says  the  missus  when  I'm  back. 

"  M'm  goin'  in,'  I  says,  *an'  explain 
about  'is  disposition  to  'im.' 

"  'No,  no,'  she  says.  'Just  let  'im 
alone  for  a  while.  Get  water  to  'im 
somehow,  then  drive  to  town  as  fast  as 
you  can  and  find  'is  master.  If  you 
find  him,  telephone  me.' 

"I  done  what  she  said,  but  I  couldn't 
find  'ide  nor  'air  of  Scotty  until  I 
thought  of  the  junction  a  mile  this  side 
of  town.  I  drove  out  there,  an'  the  man 
at  the  tower  told  me  Scotty  'ad  climbed 
156 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

the  noon  train  goin'  east  when  she 
stopped  for  water. 

"Well,  that  left  Buttercup  on  our 
*ands.  I  was  for  puttin'  a  charge  of 
shot  in  'is  ugly  'ead,  but  the  missus 
wouldn't  'ear  of  it.  She  says  that  Scotty 
may  send  for  'im. 

"  *An'  suppose  he  does,'  I  says. 
'Who'll  get   'im   out  of  there   an'   ship 

V 

I  thought  you  were  a  dog  trainer,' 
says  the  missus. 

"  *I  am,'  I  says;  *I'm  just  that.  But 
I'm  no  lion  tamer.  An'  then  suppose 
'e  don't  send  for  'im — will  'e  live  an'  die 
in  a  runway?' 

"  'No,'  she  says;  'I'm  going  to  'andle 
'im  myself.  'E'll  be  fond  of  me  in  a 
month,  Peter.' 

"I  done  all  I  could  to  change  *er  mind, 
but  she  wouldn't  listen,  an'  she  tells  me 
157 


mif 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

not  to  feed  Buttercup  nothin'  that  day. 

"The  next  morning  she's  'ere  bright 
an'  early  with  a  package  of  meat.  The 
dog  is  back  in  'is  kennel  an'  all  you  can 
see  of  'im  is  'is  green  eyes  shinin',  but  you 
can  'ear  'im  easy  enough,  if  you  go  up 
to  the  gate. 

"The  missus  stands  by  the  runway  an* 
begins  a  conversation  with  'im. 

"  *  What's  the  matter?'  says  the 
missus.     'Lonesome?' 

"  *Gr-r-r-r-rh !"  says  Buttercup. 

"  'Come  out  an'  get  acquainted/  says 
the  missus. 

"*Gr-r-r-rh!'  says  Buttercup;  an' 
that's  the  way  it  goes. 

"  'You  want  'im  out  of  there,  mem?' 
I  says  after  a  while. 

"  'Yes,'  she  says.  'I'd  like  to  have  'im 
come  'ere  to  the  fence.' 

"  'That  can  be  arranged,'  I  says.  I 
158 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

stepped  up  to  the  gate  an'  rattled  the 
catch,  an'  'e  come  out  all  right.  'E 
kep'  comin'  too,  till  'e  'it  the  gate,  an'  'e 
tried  to  tear  it  down  when  'e  got  there. 

"The  missus  flinched  back  a  step  or 
two.    I  didn't  blame  'er  neither. 

"  'Better  let  me  put  a  charge  of  shot 
in  'im  an'  get  it  over  with,  mem,'  I 
says. 

"But  she  looks  at  me  as  pleased  as 
Punch. 

"  'Why,  Peter,'  she  says,  *I  wouldn't 
miss  it  for  anything.  Isn't  he  splendid! 
It's  just  what  you  said  it  was — lion  tam- 
ing.* 

"She  throws  the  meat  over  the  fence, 
tells  me  not  to  feed  the  dog,  an'  goes  up 
to  the  'ouse.  Anybody  could  see  she 
was  'aving  the  time  of  'er  life. 

"She  comes  every  day  for  a  week  with 
meat,  or  dog  cakes,  or  something,  an' 
159 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

puts  in  an  hour  with  Buttercup;  but  it 
never  fazed  'ini.  'E  'ad  the  worst  dis- 
position on  'im  I  ever  saw.  She'd  set 
by  the  gate  an'  call  'im  a  lamb  an'  such, 
an'  'im  ragin'  inside  with  'is  back  like  a 
'airbrush. 

"Despite  what  she'd  told  me,  she  tells 
the  whole  business  to  the  mister,  an' 
never  warned  me  neither.  So  when  'e 
asks  me  about  Buttercup  I  horiginates 
'ow  the  horchid  man,  not  likin'  the  place, 
'ad  left  without  'is  dog. 

"  'Why  didn't  'e  like  it  'ere?'  'e  says 
when  I'm  done. 

"*'E  didn't  say,'  I  says.  "E  just 
left  'urriedly.' 

"  'Is  eyes  crinkled  up  the  way  they 
do  when  'e's  tickled. 

"*'Urriedly,   eh?'   'e   says.     *I   think 
that    describes    it.      Talk    some    more, 
Peter;  I  like  to  'ear  you.' 
160 


A  Permanent  hitruder 

"  'She's  told  you,'  I  says.  *An'  never 
let  me  know.' 

"  'Well,  anyway,'  'e  says,  *I  think 
we're  through  with  horchids.  But  be 
careful,  Peter;  lion  taming  is  all  right 
if  it  isn't  overdone,  you  understand?' 

"I  shows  'im  the  butt  of  a  thirty-eight 
stickin'  out  of  my  'ip  pocket. 

**  'If  the  fence  should  'appen  to  bust,' 
I  says,  'we'll  lose  a  lion  round  'ere  sud- 
den.' 

"  'Exactly,'  'e  says,  an'  goes  over  to 
the  cattle  barns. 

"Well,  the  lion  tamin'  goes  on  as  usual 
for  a  week  or  so  more,  an'  then  'er  work 
begun  to  tell.  Buttercup  got  so'  'e  be- 
gun to  look  for  'er  when  ten  o'clock 
came,  which  was  the  time  she  always 
showed  up. 

"  'E'd  give  'er  a  growl  or  two  just  to 
show  'e  'adn't  lost  'is  voice,  but  'e  left 
161 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

the  gate  alone  an'  'e  begun  to  listen  to 
what  she  'ad  to  say. 

"One  day  she  'olds  a  piece  of  meat  in 
'er  'and  an'  pokes  it  through  the  fence. 
'E  looks  at  it  an'  then  looks  away  like 
'e  'asn't  no  interest  in  meat. 

"  'Come  on !'  she  says.  *  You  know  you 
want  it.' 

"  *Gr-r-r-rh!'  'e  says,  an'  took  another 
look  at  the  meat. 

"They  argued  about  it  for  a  while,  but 
'e  wouldn't  touch  it.  Next  day  she  done 
the  same  thing,  an'  at  last  'e  come  up 
careful,  grabbed  the  meat,  takes  it  back 
in  the  runway  an'  drops  it. 

"  *Very  good !'  she  says.  *But  never 
snatch ;  it's  not  polite.  Aren't  you  going 
to  eat  it?' 

"  *E  smelled  it  an'  then  ate  it  an'  come 
back  for  more.      I  don't  think  'e  ever 
growled  at  'er  after  that. 
162 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"  'When  'e  wags  'is  tail,  Peter,  I'm 
going  in,'  she  says,  an'  that's  what  she 
done.  She  'ad  fed  'im  by  'and  for  quite 
a  while.  Then  one  morning  she  was 
late  an'  'e  stood  at  the  fence  lookin'  up 
the  drive  toward  the  'ouse.  After  a 
while  'e  give  a  whine  or  two,  an'  all  of 
a  sudden  'is  tail  begun  to  go.  I  looked 
up  the  drive  an'  'ere  she  come. 

"  *E  stood  up  on  'is  'ind  legs  pawin' 
at  the  gate  when  she  got  there,  'is  tail 
as  busy  as  a  bee. 

"  'Good  morning,  Big  Boy!'  she  says. 
An'  before  ever  I  knowed  what  she  was 
at  she  opened  the  gate  an'  stepped  in. 
I  'ollered  an'  run  for  it,  but  she  shut 
it  in  my  face. 

"  'You  stay  outside  with  your  fine 
large  revolver,'  she  says.  I  didn't  know 
she  'ad  noticed  the  gun  till  then. 

"She  goes  to  feedin'  'im  by  'and,  a 
163 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

piece  at  a  time.  'E  grabbed  at  the  first 
one,  an*  I'm  tellin'  you  now  she  give 
'im  a  slap  on  the  nose. 

"  'Table  manners !'  she  says,  an'  'e  took 
the  rest  more  careful.  When  'e'd  ate  it 
all  she  'ad  me  get  'er  a  chair.  Then 
she  sets  an'  talks  to  'im,  an'  after  a  while 
'e  puts  'is  ugly  mug  in  'er  lap. 

"Well,  that  ended  the  lion  tamin'. 
But  'e  'ad  to  be  shut  up  for  fear  'e'd 
kill  a  real  dog  for  us,  an'  the  missus 
took  'im  out  on  leash  every  day.  She'd 
go  way  over  in  the  fields  with  'im  an* 
let  'im  run  there,  an'  I  will  say  'e  minded 
'er  good. 

"I  'ated  the  sight  of  'im  at  the  ken- 
nels, more  especial  when  dog  men  came 
to  see  my  stuff.  Chuck  Sellers,  'e  visited 
me  once,  an'  I  was  goin'  down  the  run- 
ways with  'im. 

"  *This,'  I  says,  pointin'  to  a  dog  we'd 
164 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

just  brought  over,  'is  the  Duke  of  Kent. 
We  himported  'im  for  an  outcross  on 
the   Roderigo    blood.      'Andsome,    ain't 

"  *Yes,'  says  Chuck,  an'  looks  over  in 
the  next  runway  where  the  big  mongrel 
was  kep.'  'What  you  goin*  to  do  with 
Count  Cesspool?'  'e  says.  'Raise  little 
'ippopotamuses  ?' 

"I  got  so  I  'ated  the  big  slob  like  a 
skunk,  but  the  missus  wouldn't  get  rid 
of  'im.  She  says  that  Scotty  may  send 
for  'im;  but  that  wasn't  it.  You  see  'e 
would  'ave  bit  a  leg  off  any  but  'er 
that  monkeyed  with  'im,  an'  she  knowed 
it  an'  it  tickled  'er. 

"  'E  'ad  been  on  the  place  three 
months  or  so  when  one  day  'ere  comes  a 
man  from  the  cattle  barns  on  the  run. 

"'Get  a  gun  quick  an'  come  on  I'  he 
'oilers.    'The  Regent  is  loose.' 
165 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

"  'E  meant  Cordova  Regent.  You've 
'card  of  'im,  I  expect — the  worst  Jer- 
sey bull  that  ever  stood  on  four 
feet. 

"  'That's  a  fine  business,'  I  says.  'Who 
let  'im  loose?' 

"  'We  tried  to  put  another  ring  in  'is 
nose  an'  'e  broke  the  ropes,'  'e  says. 
'  'Urry  up!' 

"I  grabbed  an  automatic  from  the  ken- 
nel gun  rack  with  a  'andful  of  shells,  an' 
started  for  the  barns.  As  I  went  down 
the  runways  I  banged  into  an  open  gate. 
It  was  Buttercup's  runway,  so  'e  was 
out  with  the  missus  somewhere,  an'  I 
cussed  'im  an'  run  on. 

"I  run  through  the  dairy  'ouse, 
thinkin'  to  go  out  the  back  way  an'  save 
time.  Well,  the  back  door  was  locked, 
'eaven  knows  why,  so  I  come  out  again 
an'  went  round. 

166 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"At  the  barnyard  was  the  men,  some 
up  on  sheds,  some  on  the  straw  stack, 
an'  one  or  two  on  the  barn.  They  'ad 
clubs  an'  pitchforks  an'  such^but  I  didn't 
see  noljody  on  the  ground. 

"There  was  a  panel  of  the  barnyard 
fence  tore  down,  an'  the  Regent  was 
trottin'  across  the  fields  toward  a  bunch 
of  cows,  shakin'  'is  big  black  'cad  an' 
bellerin'. 

"Then  something  came  up  out  of  the 
'ollow  just  ahead  of  the  Regent.  It  was 
the  missus  an'  she  'ad  her  back  to  'im,  an' 
then  I  lost  my  mind. 

"'Run,  mem!'  I  says.  'For  God's 
sake,  run!'  I  whispered  it,  that's  what  I 
done,  an'  'er  a  'alf  mile  away. 

"The  Regent  put  down  'is  'ead  when 

'e  saw  'er,  gave  a  roar,  an'  started.    She 

'ad  stooped  down  for  something — she  told 

afterward  she  'ad  seen  a  four-leaf  clover 

167 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

— but  she  'eard  'im  an'  straightened  up. 
Then  she  tried  to  run. 

"Do  you  'appen  to  know  'ow  fast  a 
bull  can  move?  I  didn't  until  then.  She 
might  as  well  'ave  stood  still  in  'er  tracks. 

"Just  about  as  the  bull  'it  'er.  Butter- 
cup come  up  over  the  bank  at  the  brook. 
'E  'ad  been  diggin'  at  a  ground  'og  'ole 
or  something,  an'  is  'head  an'  chest  was 
covered  with  mud. 

"The  Regent  seemed  to  strike  the 
missus  fair — that's  the  way  it  looked, 
any'ow.  Man,  it  was  'orrible!  The  fact 
is,  'is  left  'orn  went  through  'er  skirt, 
whirled  her  in  the  air  like,  an'  tore  it 
clean  off  of  'er.  'E  never  touched  'er 
else. 

"The   Regent   stopped  an'   turned   to 
come  back,  but  'e  didn't  get  far.     'E 
'ad  no  more  than  turned,  I'll  say  to  you, 
when  the  dog  'ad  'im  by  the  nose. 
168 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

"I  don't  know  'ow  long  it  took  for 
me  to  get  to  where  they  were — long 
enough.  The  Regent  would  swing  'is 
*ead  in  the  air,  then  bring  it  down  an* 
batter  Buttercup  against  the  ground. 
I  was  *opin'  the  dog  would  'ave  enough 
life  left  in  'im  to  'old  'is  grip  until  I 
come,  an'  'e  done  it,  although  the  Regent 
got  'im  under  'is  feet  at  the  last. 

"As  I  come  up  the  missus  got  on  'er 
knees — she'd  been  lyin'  still  till  then. 

" 'Shoot— quick!'  she  says.  * 'E's 
killin'  'iml'     An'  I  done  so. 

"Well,  sir,  when  the  missus  tells  me 
she  ain't  'urt,  I  tried  to  make  that  dog 
let  go  the  dead  bull's  nose;  but  'e 
wouldn't  think  of  it.  'E  'ad  'is  jaws  an' 
eyes  shut  tight  an'  'e  didn't  open  neither 
of  'em. 

"At  last  the  missus  tries  what  she  can 
do.    She  puts  'er  'and  on  'is  'ead. 
13  169 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

"'Let  go.  Big  Boy!'  she  says.  'It's 
all  over.*  She  keeps  talkin'  to  'im,  an' 
after  a  while  'e  lets  go  an'  rolls  on  'is 
side. 

"  'E  lay  there  very  limp,  one  ear  gone 
an'  bleedin'  from  the  mouth.  One  of 
the  men  gets  'is  'at  full  of  water  from 
the  brook  an'  the  missus  pours  it  over 
Buttercup's  'ead,  an'  then  bathes  'is 
muzzle. 

"I  got  'er  skirt  where  the  Regent  'ad 
tossed  it  an'  brought  it  to  'er. 

"  'Don't  you  want  this,  mem?'  I  says. 
*You  can  wrap  it  round  you  like.' 

"  'What  difference  does  it  make?'  she 
says.    *  'E's  going  to  die,  Peter.' 

"  *  'Ow  do  you  know,  mem?'  I  says. 
*We'll  carry  'im  up  to  the  kennels  an' 
'ave  a  vet  take  a  look  at  'im.' 

"'What  a  fool  I  am!'  she  says.  'Of 
course.  'Ave  Felix  go  for  Doctor  Slos- 
170 


A  Permanent  Intruder 

son  as  fast  as  'e  can.  Tell  *im  to  take 
the  roadster.' 

"  'Yes,  mem/  I  says,  an*  the  men  car- 
ried the  dog  to  the  stables  whilst  I  went 
to  'ustle  Felix  off. 

"By  the  time  Felix  drove  in  with  the 
vet  Buttercup  was  settin*  up  an'  takin' 
notice. 

"The  vet  went  over  'im  careful.  *Two 
ribs,'  'e  says,  *one  ear  an'  four  front 
teeth.  Outside  of  that  'e'U  do.  'E's  not 
worth  much,  is  'e?' 

"  'Not  much.  Doc,'  I  says.  *Just  'is 
weight  in  gold,  that's  all.' 

"The  missus  looks  at  me  quick  an'  I 
see  'er  eyes  flood  up. 

"  'Thank  you,  Peter,  dear  old  Peter,' 
she  says.  'There's  quite  a  lot  of  'im,  you 
know.' 

"With  that  she  drops  'er  'ead  in  'er 
'ands  an'  cries  like  'er  'eart  would  break. 
171 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

Ain't  that  funny,  now — she  'adn't  shed  a 
tear  till  then. 

"Well,  that's  about  all,  an'  'ere  she 
comes  down  the  drive.  She's  after  you, 
I  expect." 

I  got  to  my  feet  and  waved  to  the 
slender  figure  approaching. 

"But,  Peter,"  I  said,  "how  can  a  dog 
as  cross  as  that  be  kept  at  the  house?" 

"Cross  1"  said  Peter.  "Huhl  'E's  old 
'ome  folks  now." 


DUMB-BELL'S  GUEST 


DUMB-BELL'S  GUEST 

HOW  long  can  you  stay?"  asked 
Mrs.  Gregory. 

* 'Three  days,  three  whole  blissful 
days,"  I  answered.  I  put  my  arm  about 
her  and  I  led  her  to  the  north  end  of 
the  terrace,  from  which  point  Brook- 
field  rolls  away  in  emerald  or  flame  or 
duns  and  browns,  depending  on  the  sea- 
son. 

The  rose  garden  lapping  the  terrace 
was  bare.  Stiff,  thorny  spikes  were  all 
that  November  had  left  of  a  riot  of 
bending,  lifting,  swaying  roses  and 
green-enamel  leaves.  The  white  marble 
shaft  of  the  sundial  was  bold  against  a 
flat  background  of  chocolate  brown 
175 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

earth.  The  garden  wall  was  edged  with 
hydrangeas.  Their  creamy  petals  had 
become  ghosts  in  Japanese  grays  and 
tans  which  the  afterglow  was  changing 
to  heliotrope.  Beyond  the  garden  was 
the  north,  some  of  the  east,  and  nearly 
all  of  the  west  lawn.  These  flowed  away 
to  far  vine-clad  flint  walls  guessed  at 
in  the  half-light  where  they  passed  a  vista 
in  the  trees. 

Drives,  maple  bordered,  swept  in 
curves  to  stables,  garage,  greenhouses 
and  gates.  Oaks,  hickories,  elms  and  the 
dark  mystery  of  scattered  pines  broke 
the  red  of  the  western  sky.  Behind  us 
was  the  black  pile  of  the  house  itself, 
in  which  friendly  lights  were  spring- 
ing up.  And  behind  that  the  meadows 
of  Brookfield  ran  and  ran  to  distant 
hills. 

"It  is  lovely,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Greg- 
176 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


ory  after  a  time.     Her  hand  tightened 
on  my  arm.    "My  dear,  we  nearly  lost 

itr 

I  turned  and  met  her  eyes.  "Lost 
it!"  I  said.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Money  I"  she  explained. 

"But  that's  impossible.  Jim  wrote  me 
the  works  were  running  night  and  day 
on  war  orders." 

"That  was  it — war  orders.  Jim  will 
tell  you.  You'll  find  him  changed,  a 
little.  Things  like  that  change  people. 
We  go  along  for  years  never  knowing. 
Life  seems  so  simple,  so  easy,  then — 
something  happens,  some  small  thing,  a 
little  human  thing,  and  you're  ground 
to  pieces,  nearly.  We  were  saved  by — 
a  miracle,  I  think." 

I  heard  well-known  footsteps  on  the 
terrace  behind  us.  They  had  the  swing- 
ing stride  which  comes  from  mile  on 
177 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

mile  of  stubble  or  briars,  or  crackling 
leaves. 

"Spooning,  eh?"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory. 

"What's  all  this  the  Chief's  been  tell- 
ing me?"  I  demanded. 

"Spare  me,"  said  Gregory,  releasing 
my  hand.  "What  does  a  lady  tell  a  gen- 
tleman when  he  stands  with  his  arm 
about  her  in  the  gloaming?"  Then  he 
grew  serious.     "After  dinner,"  he  said. 

"He's  not  changed  much  that  I  can 
see,"  I  told  Mrs.  Gregory. 

But  at  dinner  I  did  see  a  change.  His 
grin,  his  irrepressible  boyish  grin,  had 
become  a  smile.  And  in  those  comfort- 
able silences  which  are  the  hallmark  of 
abiding  friendship  I  had  time  to  wonder. 

So  they  had  nearly  lost  it!  I  glanced 
about  the  big  shadow-filled  room.  It 
178 


Dumb -Bell's  Quest 


seemed  incredible.  It  was  all  so  secure, 
so  permanent.  Why,  the  sideboard  alone 
was  immovable!  It  stood  there,  pon- 
derous, majestic,  defying  mortal  hands 
to  budge  it.  And  the  serving  tables — 
stolid,  silent.  I  felt  that  they  would 
set  their  broad  backs  and  massive  legs 
and  remain  stubbornly  against  those 
walls  while  yve  who  dined,  and  our  chil- 
dren's children,  became  dust. 

And  yet,  what  kept  them  there? 
What  made  Brookfield,  every  stick  and 
stone  of  it,  a  thing  of  joy,  a  place 
which  filled  all  those  who  entered  its 
gates  with  indescribable  contentment?  I 
knew,  I  had  seen  it.  It  was  six  miles 
down  the  valley.  It  was  refeiTcd  to, 
casually,  as  "the  works."  It  was  a  place 
of  din  and  dirt  and  sweat.  Tall  stacks 
belched  sootily  into  the  face  of  heaven 
while  white-hot  mouths  of  hell  opened 
179 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

and  closed  below.  In  infancy  it  had 
been  a  tiny  forge  at  which  a  great-great- 
grandfather had  labored  placidly.  It 
had  grown  into  a  huge  black  demon  dis- 
gorging thousands  of  tons  of  greasy 
gray  ingots  in  a  manner  which  was  be- 
yond my  understanding.  Gregory,  shout- 
ing above  the  terrifying  noise,  had  at- 
tempted to  explain;  but  my  head  was 
aching  and  I  very  much  desired  to  leave 
that  place  to  its  own  infernal  devices. 

I  had  never  seen  it  since.  Submerged 
in  the  tranquillity  of  Brookfield,  I  had 
forgotten  it  entirely.  Even  Gregory 
gave  it  scant  attention.  He  motored 
down  the  valley  once  or  twice  a  month, 
was  gone  perhaps  three  hours,  and  re- 
turned to  his  dogs  and  his  guns. 

But  something  had  gone  amiss,  appar- 
ently. Perhaps  the  trouble  had  been  in 
the  demon's  entrails.  Perhaps  it  had  re- 
180 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


fused  to  digest  the  ore  and  lime  and 
coke  which  pygmies  poured  down  its 
gullet. 

A  gray  shadow  padded  through  the 
doorway.  It  stopped  just  at  the  en- 
trance and  surveyed  us  silently. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Gregory. 
"Won't  you  join  us?'* 

The  shadow  waved  a  plumed  tail.  It 
advanced  unhurriedly  until  the  candle 
light  showed  a  small  white  setter  with  a 
lemon  dumb-bell  on  his  side. 

He  was  quite  small,  as  setters  go,  but 
he  had  the  dignity  of  kings.  He  was 
the  double  champion  Brookfield  Dumb- 
Bell  who  had  won  the  National  and  All 
America  and  twenty  lesser  stakes  be- 
sides. He  outclassed  the  setters  and 
pointers  of  the  world,  and  I  think  he 
knew  it. 

With  all  this  he  was  not  above  the 
181 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

duties  of  hospitality.  Straight  to  my 
chair  he  came,  sniffed  once  to  assure 
himself  of  my  identity,  then  raised  his 
eyes  to  mine. 

"How  do  you  do?"  I  said  and  slid  my 
hand  along  his  head  until  one  of  his  ears 
slipped  through  my  fingers. 

He  waved  his  tail  and  stretched  his 
lips  in  the  suggestion  of  a  grin,  an  un- 
canny habit  he  had — and  I  remembered 
how  many  birds  I  had  missed  the  year 
before  after  some  of  his  matchless  finds. 

"It's  not  polite  to  laugh  at  a  duffer," 
I  told  him. 

He  poked  a  cold  nose  into  the  hollow 
of  my  hand,  then  sauntered  around  the 
table.  He  waved  his  tail  as  he  passed 
both  his  master  and  mistress,  stood  a  mo- 
ment in  thought,  and  withdrew  as  un- 
hurriedly as  he  had  come.  We  heard 
his  nails  click  as  he  passed  from  rug  to 
182 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


rug  on  the  hardwood  floor  of  the  main 
hall  and  we  listened  until  the  sound  grew 
fainter  and  was  gone. 

*'Back  to  the  throne,"  I  said,  and  this 
proved  to  be  true.  When  we  went  to  the 
living-room  a  few  moments  later  he  was 
curled  up  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes 
closed.  "Asleep,  eh?"  I  said;  but  he  de- 
nied it  feebly  with  a  slight  thump  of  his 
tail  against  the  leather  chair  seat.  Pres- 
ently he  was  snoring. 

"How  much  could  you  get  for  him?" 
I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Gregory. 
"His  size  is  against  him  for  a  stud  dog." 

"How  much  would  you  take?" 

Gregory  joined  me  by  the  chair.  He 
looked  down  at  the  sleeping  Dumb-Bell. 
"Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  selling  him. 
Had  you.  Chief?" 

"Oh,  yes,  often.  He  tracks  the  house 
183 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

up  so,  with  his  blessed  muddy  paws. 
Come  here,  you  silly  things,  and  drink 
your  coffee." 

Gregory  took  a  gold  and  white  egg- 
shell of  a  cup  to  the  fireplace.  He  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire  stirring  his  cof- 
fee thoughtfully. 

"I  can  tell  you  how  much  he  is  worth," 
he  said  suddenly:  "one  million,  two  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

"He  should  find  a  pleasant  home  for 
that,"  I  said.  "Would  you  throw  off 
the  fifteen  thousand  for  cash?"  Then  I 
saw  that  he  was  serious.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  I  asked.    "Why  the  exact  sum?" 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  an  old  Mr. 
Parmalee,  of  Chicago,  R,  H.  Parma- 
lee?" 

I  considered  a  moment.  "Yes,  I  think 
I  do.  That  is,  I  knew  of  him  when  I 
was  scratching  for  the  Tribwne,  He's 
184i 


Dumb'BelVs  Guest 


the  hete  noir  of  the  higher-ups  in  Wall 
Street.  He  lives  in  Chicago,  won't  leave 
it,  an3  is  chairman  of  the  board  or  a  big 
stockholder  in  heaven  knows  how  many 
Eastern  concerns.  He  won't  go  East 
to  board  meetings,  so  board  meetings  go 
to  him,  and  the  elect  groan  and  moan  at 
the  trip.  He  hates  ostentation  like*  the 
devil,  and  looks  like  a  tramp.  Is  he  the 
man  you  mean?'* 

"Yes,  that's  the  man.  Especially  the 
tramp  part." 

"He's  a  queer  old  codger,"  I  said. 
"He  supports  a  flock  of  no-account  rela- 
tives who  are  ashamed  to  meet  him  on 
the  street." 

A  coffee  spoon  clattered.  "He's  not  a 
queer  old  codger  I"  said  Mrs.  Gregory. 
"He's  a  dear!  I  adore  him.  Imagine 
being  ashamed  to  meet  him  I  What  do 
his  clothes  matter?  Why — " 
13  185 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

"Hold  on  there,"  Gregory  put  in. 
"What  did  you  say  when  Griggs  took 
him  upstairs? — Griggs  was  carrying  his 
bag  as  though  it  might  explode  at  any 
moment — What  was  it  you  said?" 

Mrs.  Gregory  recovered  her  spoon. 
"I'm  sure  I've  forgotten." 

"You  asked  me  where  I'd  picked  him 
up,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  perhaps  I  did,  but  I  simply 
meant — '* 

Gregory  turned  to  me.  "If  you 
should  hear  your  hostess  ask  where  you 
had  been  picked  up,  how  would  it  strike 
you?" 

"Why,  has  he  been  here?"  I  asked. 
"Where  did  you  meet  him?  What's  all 
this  about,  anyway?" 

"It's  about — what  the  Chief  was  tell- 
ing you  on  the  terrace.  Are  you  ready 
to  smoke?  Cigarettes  in  that  silver  doo- 
186 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


dab.  Cigars  just  behind  you.  Want  a 
liqueur?  Well,  take  that  other  chair;  it's 
more  comfortable.  Don't  interrupt  at 
mere  exaggeration,  Chief.  Man,  it  would 
make  a  play  I  Perhaps  you  can  do 
something  with  it.  And  I  thought  I 
was  doing  a  kind  act."  He  grinned  at 
his  wife.  "Succoring  the  poor  and 
needy,  eh.  Chief?  She  was  Lady  Boun- 
tiful—Oh, golly!  And  then  Dumb-Bell 
saved  the  day.  And  the  Chief — I  think 
he  was  fond  of  the  Chief,  too,  she'd 
been  so  sweet  to  the  poor  old  man. 
He—" 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  what  happened, 
or  are  you  going  to  stand  there  and — " 

"Well,  you  tell  him!" 

"Indeed  I'll  not.  Sit  down  here  and 
be  serious.  You  were  serious  enough — 
then." 

Gregory's  smile  was  gone  the  instant 
187 


Dumb  Sell  of  Brookfield 

she  had  spoken.  "Yes,  Chief,"  he  said 
gravely.  "We  were  both  a  bit  serious, 
I  thought."  He  left  the  fireplace  and 
let  himself  slowly  down  into  a  chair 
close  to  where  his  wife  was  sitting.  "I 
hope  we'll  never  be  quite  so  serious 
again."  He  crossed  his  long  legs,  lit 
a  cigar,  and  stared  into  the  bluish  flames 
of  the  applewood  fire.  "The  war  did 
it,"  he  said  at  last.  "And  playing  a 
new  game.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  high  explosive  shells?" 

"Not  a  thing,"  I  said.  "Except  that 
they  go  off  with  a  bang,  and  everybody's 
getting  rich  making  them." 

"Just  so.  That's  what  I  knew,  last 
year.  Of  course  I  thought,  still  think, 
the  Allies  are  doing  our  work.  We 
didn't  have  the  sweepers  to  get  into 
the  housecleaning  properly  and — they 
needed  brooms.  Well,  things'll  be  more 
188 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 


tidy  when  they  get  through,  but  it's  been 
a  dirty  job.  A  year  ago  it  looked  bad. 
I  rather  wanted  to  help  in  a  small 
way. 

"Of  course  you  know  I'm  not  very 
active  at  the  works.  Braithwaite  runs 
things  to  suit  himself,  and  that  lets  me 
knock  about  pretty  much  as  I  please. 
He  loves  work  and  I  love  play,  and  there 
you  are — everybody  satisfied. 

"Well,  along  comes  a  chap  from  the 
Midland  Iron  Company  with  his  pockets 
full  of  subcontracts  and  his  head  full  of 
everything  from  barbed  wire  to  aero- 
planes. He  spent  two  days  with  Braith- 
waite and  Gaston,  and  they  came  up 
here,  all  mad  as  hatters,  and  routed  me 
out.  The  idea  was  to  build  a  plant  in 
nine  or  ten  minutes  and  take  on  the  ma- 
chining of  three  million  three-inch  high 
explosives  for  Russia  on  a  subcontract 
189 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

from  Midland  Iron,  who'd  furnish  the 
rough  casings. 

"All  play  and  no  work  makes  Jack  a 
bright  boy,  and  I  inquired  gently  about 
Midland  Iron. 

"They  smiled  at  me  pityingly.  *You 
tell  him,'  said  Braithwaite.  So  the  sub- 
contract chap  mentioned  the  names  of 
the  directors  in  a  hushed  voice,  and  I 
blinked.  'But,'  I  said,  *IVe  never  heard 
of  it  before,  and  outside  of  hunting  sea- 
son I  do  read  the  papers  now  and  then.' 
They  explained  that  it  was  a  lot  of  junk 
consolidated  solely  for  war  business  with 
*all  the  money  in  the  world'  behind  it. 
This  was  so,  all  right.  Both  Dun  and 
Bradstreet  sent  a  report  a  few  days  later 
that  made  me  blink  again. 

"Well,  there  seemed  to  be  a  quarter 
of  a  million  in  it  sure,  but  I  went  in 
more  for  the  reason  I've  told  you  than 
190 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


for  the  profit  on  the  job.  Business  had 
been  bad  for  two  years  and  I  was  down 
pretty  fine;  but  all  you  had  to  do  was 
to  mention  Midland  Iron  at  any  bank 
and  you  could  walk  in  and  help  your- 
self. We  built  a  plant — equipment, 
three  hundred  lathes,  three  hundred  elec- 
tric motors,  and  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends.  I 
went  on  the  paper,  of  course. 

"There  was  some  delay  at  first.  We 
wanted  master  gauges,  and  Midland 
couldn't  let  us  have  *em.  When  we 
hollered  they  passed  the  buck  to  Russia. 
The  Grand  Dukes  were  too  busy  or  too 
tired  or  something  to  send  on  the  draw- 
ings, so  we  paid  three  hundred  machin- 
ists for  an  eight-hour  day  and  they  sat 
among  the  lathes  and  played  pinochle. 
We  didn't  dare  let  'em  go.  Skilled  labor 
is  skilled  labor  these  days.  That  was 
all  right,  because  we  put  it  up  to  Mid- 
191 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

land  and  they  never  whimpered.  Just 
O.K.'d  our  pay  roll  and  charged  it  to 
— ^the  Czar,  I  guess. 

"This  went  on  for  two  months.  Then 
we  got  our  gauges  and  a  Russian  in- 
spector who  talked  French,  all  in  one 
day;  and  the  rough  cases  began  to  roll 
in  from  Midland  in  trainload  lots,  and 
pinochle  ceased  to  be  a  vocation  around 
there. 

"All  during  this  the  field  trial  season 
was  on,  and  it  was  breaking  my  heart. 
We  had  a  nice  birdy  pup  by  Dumb-Bell 
out  of  Miss  Nance  in  the  derbys,  and 
Peter  went  to  a  trial  or  two.  He  came 
home  quite  gloomy,  though,  because  the 
pointers  were  winning  all  down  the  line. 
*  'EU-'ooping  all  over  the  country  like  a 
lot  o'  gray'ounds,'  is  what  he  told  me. 
*Don't  they  find  birds?'  I  asked,  and  I 
gathered  from  what  he  said  that  when  a 
192 


Dumb -Bell's  Gvest 


pointer  stumbled  over  a  bevy  he  stopped 
in  astonishment. 

"War  or  no  war,  I  was  going  to  see 
the  National  at  least,  and  things  got  to 
running  so  nicely  I  decided  to  make  it 
three  weeks  and  take  in  the  United 
States  and  another  stake.  Braithwaite 
said  to  go — he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of 
me,  I  think.  I  left  for  the  South  with 
everybody  happy  and  the  Russian  in- 
spector walking  around  twisting  his  lit- 
tle stick-up  mustache  and  saying  'C*est 
trhs  bien/  at  everything,  including  the 
three-star  Hennessey,  which  he  liked  and 
we  furnished.  He  drank  a  quart  a  day 
without  a  quiver.    Think  of  it! 

"Peter  was  right  about  the  pointers.  It 
was  a  pointer  year.  They  were  a  poor 
lot,  too;  but  the  setters  were  worse,  and 
our  crowd  was  in  the  dumps.  There  was 
a  lot  of  grumbling  about  the  judging. 
193 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

Some  of  us  think  that  first  of  all  a  bird 
dog  must  find  birds.  We  believe  he  can 
go  just  as  fast  as  his  nose  will  let  him  and 
no  faster.  And  that  brings  me  to  old  Mr. 
Parmalee. 

"He  got  in  the  second  night  of  the  Uni-*/ 
ted  States.  He  had  the  same  old  frowsy 
leather  bag  he  has  brought  to  every  field 
trial  as  long  as  anybody  can  remember. 
He  was  looking  seedy,  even  for  him,  and 
that's  saying  a  good  deal.  He  came  in 
the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  the  boys  yelled 
at  him  and  grabbed  him  and  hammered 
him  on  the  back,  and  he  blushed — ^he's  a 
diffident  little  old  cuss. 

"Nobody  knew  anything  about  him,- ex- 
cept that  he  came  down  to  the  trials  year 
after  year,  that  he  loved  a  setter  as  well 
as  any  man  in  the  world,  and  that  he  was 
a  stickler  for  nose  rather  than  speed. 
He'd  forget  all  embarrassment  and  speak 
194 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 

— J 

rigWt  up  when  it  came  to  arguing  about 
that; 

"He  had  a  bully  round  with  Fosdick  of 
the  Argot  strain  that  first  night.  Fosdick 
was  a  little  overbearing,  I  thought — he 
has  a  twenty-thousand-acre  preserve  on 
the  James  River  and  twenty  feet  of  water 
at  his  own  dock  when  he  runs  down  in  his 
yacht — and  finally  he  said:  'Well,  if  you 
don't  like  the  kind  of  dogs  we're  sending 
to  the  trials,  why  don't  you  breed  some  to 
suit  you?' 

"Everybody  felt  uncomfortable.  You 
don't  hear  things  like  that  often  at  the 
trials. 

"But  the  old  gentleman  looked  Fos- 
dick in  the  eye  and  came  back  as  pat 
as  you  please.  *I  don't  have  to  breed  one,' 
he  said;  'it's  already  been  done.  If  you 
want  to  find  out  just  what  you've  got, 
pick  out  the  best  one  you  ever  bred  and 
195 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

put  him  down  for  three  hours  with  Brook- 
field  Dumb-Bell.' 

"Well,  the  setter  men  yelled  at  that — 
everybody  did,  in  fact — and  Fosdick  shut 
up  like  a  clam.  The  old  gentleman  came 
over  to  where  I  was  sitting,  and  we  talked 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"He  said  that  he  was  from  Chicago, 
and  that  he  took  his  vacation  each  year 
when  the  National  was  run.  He  said  he 
hoped  to  *slip  out  of  the  harness  some  day* 
and  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  with  a 
twenty  gauge  and  a  pair  of  Llewellyns. 
I  thought  perhaps  he  was  keeping  books ; 
I  don't  know  why,  except  that  he  was 
stoop-shouldered  and  spoke  of  having  to 
work  too  hard  at  his  age.  I  had  a  vision 
of  him  perched  on  a  high  stool  doing 
double  entry. 

"I  didn't  see  much  of  him  after  that  un- 
til the  finals  of  the  Championship.  He 
196 


Dumb-BelVs  Guest 


rode  with  me  that  afternoon,  and  we  fol- 
lowed the  dogs  as  best  we  could,  hoping 
for  bird  work,  which  we  didn't  get.  He 
was  fairly  chipper  when  we  started,  but 
as  the  dogs  ran  he  got  more  and  more 
quiet.  I  don't  think  he  spoke  once  during 
the  last  hour. 

"Well,  they  gave  it  to  a  rangy,  wild- 
eyed,  bitch-headed  pointer  who  had  cov- 
ered most  of  a  county  and  found  two 
bevies  and  one  single  in  three  hours'  run- 
ning; and  I  rode  home  with  old  Mr.  Par- 
malee.  He  got  off  his  horse  and  sighed, 
and  went  into  the  hotel  without  a  word. 

"I  went  upstairs  and  packed.  When  I 
came  down  he  was  standing  looking  out 
the  window,  and  I  walked  over  to  him. 

"The  new  champion  was  on  leash  in 

front  of  the  hotel  with  a  crowd  around 

him.    His  handler  was  telling  everybody 

what  a  great  dog  they  were  looking  at. 

197 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

Once  he  said:  *He's  a  bird  dog,  men!' 
and  old  Mr.  Parmalee  snorted.  He 
turned  to  me  and,  by  George,  he  looked 
all  broken  up.  *This  is  my  last  trip/  he 
said;  *I'm  getting  too  old  to  come  down 
here  and  see — ^what  we  saw  today.' 

"I  said  something  about  it  being  an  off 
year,  but  he  didn't  answer.  He  looked 
out  the  window  and  clicked  with  his 
tongue.  *So  that's  a  National  Champion!' 
he  said.  Then  he  turned  to  me  again. 
*Five  years  ago  today,'  he  said,  'I  saw  a 
real  champion  win  this  stake.  I  can  re- 
member every  move  he  made.  He  found 
sixteen  bevies  and  twenty-three  singles, 
and  he  went  a  mile  at  every  cast.  I  have 
wanted  to  see  something  like  that  again, 
.  .  .  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  ...  I  don't 
think  I  shall.' 

"I'm  something  of  a  soft  ass  at  times, 
and  he  looked  rather  old  and  forlorn;  so 
198 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 


I  took  hold  of  his  arm  and  said,  'You 
come  back  to  Brookfield  with  me,  and 
we'll  shoot  some  quail  over  him  and  watch 
him  work  for  a  week  or  so.  What  do  you 
say?' 

"He  said  a  lot  about  being  an  old  nui- 
sance and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  his  eyes 
were  shining  like  a  child's,  and  I  hustled 
him  upstairs  and  helped  him  pack  his  duds 
— you  should  have  seen  'em — and  we 
caught  the  five  o'clock  train.  The  Chief 
met  us  at  the  front  door  next  day  and 
Dumb-Bell  was  standing  beside  her. 

"I  didn't  see  much  of  him  after  that — 
I  had  other  things  on  my  mind — ^but  the 
Chief  took  him  under  her  wing,  and  he 
took  to  it  all  like  a  wet  setter  to  a  wood 
fire.    Didn't  he.  Chief?" 

"He  was  just  sweet;  one  of  the  very 
nicest  guests  we  ever  had.  He  under- 
stood everything  so.  Of  course  at  first  I 
199 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

was — well,  not  startled  exactly,  but  Jim 
chums  with  terrible  creatures  if  they  shoot 
well  or  can  walk  as  far  as  he  can.  You 
know  he  adores  that  Slade  man  who's  been 
in  jail  I  don't  know  how  many  times,  and 
sells  whisky  on  the  sly,  and  fights  bull- 
dogs and  game  chickens.  Jim  takes  him 
to  the  gun  room  and  they  sit  and  roar 
at  each  other.  Sometimes  I  wonder  who 
tells  the  worst  stories,  the  Slade  man  or 
Jim. 

"Jim  hadn't  told  me  he  was  bringing 
anyone  home  with  him,  and  when  they  got 
out  of  the  motor  and  I  saw  Mr.  Parmalee 
for  the  first  time,  well! — really  his  clothes 
are  shocking.  And  his  collars  and  cuffs 
and  ties!  And  his  hat!  Where  do  you 
suppose  he  got  that  hat,  Jim?  Then  he 
was  not  at  all  at  his  ease  when  Jim  pre- 
sented him;  I  didn't  know  how  diffident 
he  was,  then,  so  when  he  went  upstairs  I 
200 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


asked  Jim — what  he  told  you  just  now." 

Gregory  chuckled.  "About  picking 
him  up,  she  means.  He's  worth  a  hun- 
dred millions." 

"What  of  it?  If  he  hadn't  been  the 
charming  old  thing  he  is  what  difference 
would  that  make?" 

"Of  course,  of  course;  but,  even  so, 
'picking  up'  a  multimillionaire  isn't  the 
way  I'd  put  it — exactly." 

"It  wasn't  any  time  until  I  knew.  He 
had  beautiful  old-school  manners  when  his 
shyness  wore  off.  Mr.  Braithwaite  had 
been  telephoning  for  Jim,  so  he  went  off 
to  the  works,  and  I  showed  Mr.  Parmalee 
the  place,  and  he  loved  it  all.  We  spent 
most  of  the  afternoon  at  the  kennels.  He 
knew  Peter,  he'd  seen  him  somewhere  at 
the  trials,  and  they  looked  at  all  the  dogs 
and  talked  and  talked.  Then  I  showed 
him  Roderigo's  grave  in  the  orchard,  and 
14  201 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookjield 

he  stood  looking  down  at  it,  and  I  knew  I 
was  going  to  like  him. 

"We  came  to  the  house  because  he 
wanted  to  see  Dumb-Bell  again,  but  the 
mannie  was  out  in  the  garden  digging  for 
moles  with  his  face  all  dirty.  He  was 
having  a  splendid  time  and  I  didn't  want 
to  call  him  in,  and  Mr.  Parmalee  said,  *Of 
course  not.' 

"We  had  tea  in  here  and  Mr.  Par- 
malee sat  down  in  Dumb-Bell's  chair — 
not  knowing — and  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  mind  changing  his  seat.  He  looked 
surprised  and  embarrassed,  and  said, 
*Why,  certainly.'  So  when  he  had  taken 
another  chair  I  told  him. 

"I  said  that  Roderigo  had  had  it  first 
and  it  was  his  very  own  chair.  And  then 
it  was  empty  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
Dumb-Bell  did — ^what  he  did,  and  now  it 
was  his,  and  nobody  else  sat  in  it. 
202 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


"Mr.  Parmalee  said,  'I  see,  I  see,'  and 
went  over  and  looked  at  the  chair,  and 
then  he  said,  rather  to  himself,  'It's  not 
for  mere  humans,  is  it?'  and  then  he  blew 
his  nose. 

"  'Sometimes,'  I  said,  'people  sit  in  it 
and  hold  him  in  their  laps.  That's  all 
right,  of  course.'  And  he  said,  *I  should 
like  to  do  that  very  much';  and  then  we 
had  our  tea.  We  got  along  splendidly 
after  that." 

"I  should  say  they  did,"  said  Gregory, 
"She  took  to  the  Lady  Bountiful  business 
like  a  duck.  She  fancied  she  was  showing 
the  poor  old  man  the  time  of  his  life." 

"I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory  calmly. 

"He's  coming  back,  at  any  rate.  And 
the  Lord  knows  I  didn't  do  so  much  to 
make  his  visit  pleasant.  After  I  saw 
Braithwaite  I  didn't  have  time  to  work 
dogs  for  old  Mr.  Parmalee  or  anybody 
203 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

else.  I  told  him  I  was  busy,  and  Peter 
took  him  out  every  morning,  and  he 
knocked  about  with  the  Chief  in  the  after- 
noon. It  was  out  of  season,  but  I  told 
Peter  to  let  the  old  man  kill  a  few  quail 
over  Dumb-Bell  just  to  say  he'd  done 
it.    I  thought  Peter  would  shoot  me. 

"He  came  up  to  the  house  that  night, 
though,  and  looked  at  me  as  though  I 
were  a  convict.  It  seems  the  old  man  had 
refused  point  blank  to  take  a  gun  along 
out  of  season.  *'E's  a  sportsman,'  said 
Peter,  'and,  'eaven  knows,  they're  rare 
enough!'  I  admitted  it,  and  Peter  left 
with  his  head  in  the  air. 

"This  was  at  first.  I  saw  the  old  chap 
each  night  of  course  and  he'd  describe 
every  point  Dumb-Bell  had  made  that 
day.  Later  he  could  have  had  a  fit  in  the 
front  hall  without  my  noticing  it." 

"That  isn't  so.  Through  it  aU  he  re- 
204 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 


membered  his  guest.  At  dinner  he'd  sit 
with  a  look  on  his  face  that  made  me  want 
to  scream,  and  talk  hunting  dogs  and  field 
trials  and  trout  fishing  with  that  old  man, 
and  laugh  at  his  stories,  too." 

"Stuff.  I  simply  wanted  to  forget  dur- 
ing dinner  that  I  owed  a  million." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Gregory  cheerfully. 
"Well  over  a  million.  I  gave  you  the 
figures  a  while  ago." 

"It  isn't  possible!" 

"That's  what  I  said  until  Braithwaite 
got  through.  It's  quite  simple.  Our  con- 
tract was  for  three  dollars  and  forty-five 
cents  per  shell  for  three  million  shells  and 
it  was  costing  us  three  eighty-five  and  a 
half  to  turn  'em  out." 

"But  how  could  that  be?  Why  were 
your  estimates  so  far  off?" 

"New  game.  We  didn't  know  the  an- 
205 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

gles.  And  then  things  broke  badly  for 
us.  For  instance,  we  figured  on  three 
hundred  lathes  at  eight  hundred  dollars. 
Well,  everything  went  sky  high  and  our 
lathes  cost  fifteen  hundred  each,  and  we 
had  to  get  down  on  our  knees  and  pray 
for  'em  at  that  price.  Same  thing  with 
our  motors.  They  should  have  been  a 
hundred  and  thirty-five;  they  were  two 
hundred  and  fifty.  We  figured  on  seven- 
teen-cent  copper,  which  is  high  enough. 
We  paid  twenty-six  cents  a  pound  for 
every  pound,  and  you  could  take  it  or 
leave  it,  they  didn't  care  which;  so  every 
band  on  every  shell  cost  forty-five  cents 
instead  of  thirty-two.  Then  we  got  into 
a  mess  through  improper  heat  treatment. 
The  cases  were  annealed  at  too  low  a  tem- 
perature, and  they  broke  our  machines 
and  chewed  up  our  tools  and  played  the 
dickens  generally.  Same  with  the  fuse 
206 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 


sockets.  We'd  figured  on  free-cutting 
cold-rolled  bar  stock,  point  forty-five. 
Instead  it  was  fifty-eight  to  sixty,  and  ma- 
chine tools  holler  for  help  in  that  kind  of 
going.  Oh,  it  was  a  fine  party,  but  ex- 
pensive. 

**To  make  everything  perfect,  the  Rus- 
sian inspector  left  the  Hennessey  long 
enough  to  wander  from  the  office  over  to 
the  plant  and  throw  out  the  first  batch 
of  finished  shells  because  the  interiors 
weren't  smooth. 

"Of  course  anyone  knows  the  exterior 
of  a  shell  must  be  polished  on  account  of 
air  friction,  but  the  inside — 

"Braithwaite  kept  his  temper  somehow, 
so  he  told  me,  and  asked  in  bad  French  if 
they  wanted  'em  polished  just  to  be  tidy, 
or  what?  And  the  inspector  explained 
that  the  trinitro  toluol  went  into  'em  un- 
der pressure  and  was  extremely  sensitive. 
207 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

Therefore  a  little  roughness  of  the 
chamber  wall  might  cause  a  spark  if  the 
shell  were  dropped,  in  which  case — 
Toufr 

"  *0h,  pouf !  eh?'  said  Braithwaite. 
*Well,  we're  a  liberal  crowd;  at  three 
forty-five  we  throw  in  a  "pouf"  with  every 
shell.'  But  our  Russian  friend  drew  him 
gently  to  the  office  and  got  out  the  con- 
tract and  it  read:  'Surfaces  must  be  pol- 
ished.' One  little  s  did  the  trick  and 
Braithwaite  beat  the  inspector  to  the  Hen- 
nessey bottle. 

"Of  course  we  put  it  up  to  Midland  at 
once,  by  letter,  by  wire,  by  long  distance ; 
then  Braithwaite  and  I  went  on.  After 
wrestling  with  'em  for  two  days  and  a 
night  they  agreed  to  allow  us  ten  cents  a 
shell,  and  that  was  final. 

"I  came  home  with  two  hands  and  the 
clothes  on  my  back.  I'm  a  good  wing 
208 


Dumb-BeWs  Guest 


shot,  throw  a  fairly  accurate  fly,  and — 
I'll  be  forty  next  month. 

"I  sat  in  the  smoker  all  night.  I  kept 
seeing  the  Chief  in  the  rose  garden.  She 
had  on  a  floppy  pink  sun  hat  and  she  cut 
roses,  armloads  of  'em — and  sang.'* 

Gregory  stopped  abruptly. 

"Good  Lord!"  I  said.  I  saw  white  fin- 
gers steal  over  and  twine  themselves  about 
a  lean  brown  hand  clenched  on  the  chair 
arm.  I  becanie  absorbed  in  the  fireplace 
with  its  bed  of  glowing  ashes. 

"Isn't  it  the  deuce,"  said  Gregory  at 
last,  "what  just  money  will  do  I  Just 
money.    Think  of  it!" 

I  thought  of  it  while  the  big  clock  tick- 
tocked  in  the  hall,  and  something  was 
done  with  an  absurdly  small  handkerchief, 
and  the  pinched  look  left  Gregory's  face. 

"I  hadn't  told  the  Chief  anything,"  he 
began  again.  "I'd  been  hoping  that  Mid- 
209 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

land  might  see  us  through.  Of  course 
she  knew  something  was  in  the  wind,  but 
she  hadn't  an  idea  how  bad  it  was.  On 
the  train  coming  back  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  tell  her  as  soon  as  I  got  in  the  house; 
so  we  walked  in  here  as  soon  as  we'd  said 
hello. 

"She  asked  me  if  I  was  tired,  and  I 
said  *A  little,'  and  looked  about  the  room. 
I'd  forgotten  old  Mr.  Parmalee  was  on 
earth,  but  I  thought  a  servant  might  be 
about.  I  never  looked  in  the  bay  window. 
There's  nothing  there  but  the  chair  and 
no  one  would  be  sitting  in  that. 

"I  sat  down  where  you're  sitting  now, 
and  I  said,  'Come  here.  Chief,'  and  she 
came  and  sat  in  my  lap,  and  then  I  told 
her. 

"I  got  far  enough  along  to  mention 
Midland  Iron,  and  then  I  heard  a  noise 
in  the  bay  window  as  though  someone  had 
210 


Dumb -Bell's  Guest 


moved  a  foot  on  the  floor.  I  said,  'Wait 
a  moment,'  to  the  Chief,  and  got  up  and 
went  over  to  the  chair. 

"Old  Mr.  Parmalee  was  sitting  there 
with  Dmnb-Bell  asleep  in  his  lap.  The 
dog  was  wet  and  muddy  and  snoring — 
you  know  how  he  snores  when  he's  tired. 

"  *0h,  hello !'  I  said,  and  the  old  chap 
looked  as  though  I'd  caught  him  stealing 
the  silver. 

"  *I  didn't  want  to  wake  him,'  he  said 
in  a  whisper;  and  I  said,  'Won't  he  ruin 
your  clothes?' 

"He  didn't  answer — just  looked  down 
at  the  dog.  *We've  had  a  wonderful  day,' 
he  said,  'wonderful!'  And  I  said,  'That's 
good,'  and  took  the  Chief  in  the  library, 
and  finished  telling  her  there. 

"I  had  dinner  alone  with  the  old  man 
that  night.  The  Chief  couldn't  come 
down.  You  see  she'd  got  both  barrels  at 
211 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

once,  and  it  flattened  her  out  for  a  few 
hours. 

"I  didn't  say  much,  and  neither  did  he. 
As  soon  as  we'd  had  coffee  I  asked  him  to 
excuse  me,  and  he  said,  'Certainly,'  but  he 
fidgeted  a  bit  and  finally  got  out  that  he 
wanted  to  ask  a  favor,  and  I  told  him  to 
go  ahead. 

"He  said,  *You  know  I  expected  to 
leave  tomorrow  morning.'  I  said,  *Yes.' 
I  hadn't  known  it,  but  I  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  him,  under  the  circumstances. 

"  'Would  it  be  asking  too  much,'  he 
said,  *if  I  stayed  a  day  or  so  longer?'  I 
told  him  to  go  ahead  and  stay.  I  wasn't 
very  cordial,  I'm  afraid.  I  wanted  to 
get  up  to  the  Chief,  and  I  wanted  him 
to  go. 

"I  didn't  see  him  at  all  next  morning. 
The  Chief  wanted  to  look  at  the  place  and 
wanted  me  with  her,  so  we  wandered 
212 


Dumb 'Bell's'  Guest 


about  and  looked  at  everything  as  though 
we  were  seeing  it  for  the  first  time." 

*'We  were,"  Mrs.  Gregory  put  in;  "I 
saw  things  I'd  never  seen  before." 

"What  with?"  asked  Gregory. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  cry  all  the  time — ^just 
when  things  happened  that  would  nearly 
kill  you.  .  .  .  The  cows,  with  their  big 
kind  eyes,  all  giving  as  much  milk  as  they 
possibly  could.  And  the  work  horses,  the 
dear  old  work  horses  that  would  go  away 
from  the  safe,  warm  stables.  And  the 
dogs,  our  own  little  doggies  that  were  so 
glad  to  see  us.  And  the  grass  and  the 
trees  and  the  fields,  and  Peter  and  Jerry 
and  Felix — and  all  the  men,  so  good  and 
faithful,  who  had  to  be  taken  care  of  when 
they  grew  old.  They  were  all  so  proud  of 
what  they  were  doing,  even  the  man  who 
was  putting  in  tile,  Jim,  do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

218 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

"Yes,"  said  Gregory. 

"And  then  we  came  back  to  the  house 
and  in  here  and — there  was  the  chair,  all 
worn,  and — "  the  ridiculous  handkerchief 
was  out  again,  " — and  then  I  wanted  to 
die  before  it  all  happened.  .  ,  .  And  just 
then — ^just  then — You  tell  him,  Jim!" 

"Well,"  said  Gregory,  "just  then  old 
Mr.  Parmalee  came  in,  very  much  embar- 
rassed, and  asked  if  we  were  in  trouble. 
And  the  Chief  said  yes,  we  were.  And 
old  Mr.  Parmalee  asked  if  he  couldn't 
help.  And  I  said  no,  and  thanked  him. 
Then  he  said—" 

"And  the  way  he  said  it,  Jim  I  'Some- 
times people  can  help — other  people.* 
That's  what  he  said.    Wasn't  it,  Jim?" 

Gregory  nodded.     "Well,  of  course  I 

said  he  couldn't  help  in  this  case,  and  he 

said,  'I  heard  you  mention  Midland  Iron 

yesterday.     Has  that  corporation  any- 

214 


Dumb -Bell* s  Guest 


thing  to  do  with  it?'  I  was  surprised  he 
even  knew  the  name,  but  I  said  yes,  and 
he  said,  'If  that's  the  case  I  think  you'd 
better  tell  me  about  it.*  He  sat  down 
then  and  folded  his  arms  as  though  ready 
to  listen,  and  for  some  reason,  I  don't 
know  why,  I  sat  down,  too,  and  told  him 
the  whole  business. 

"When  I  got  through  he  said,  'Yes,  I 
see.'  Then  he  got  up  and  walked  over 
and  looked  down  at  Dumb-Bell  and  said, 
*He'd  have  to  leave  his  chair  as  things  are, 
wouldn't  he?'  Then  he  looked  at  the 
Chief,  *We  can't  have  that,  can  we?' 
he  said,  and  the  Chief  began  to  weep 
again. 

"The  old  man  said,  'There,  there,'  and 
picked  up  the  phone  and  asked  for  long 
distance,  and  then  for  A.  L.  Warrington 
at  Pittsburgh — he's  president  of  Mid- 
land. I  thought  the  old  man  had  lost  his 
215 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

mind.  I  sat  there  looking  at  him,  wonder- 
ing what  the  deuce  Warrington  would 
say  when  he  found  what  he  had  on  the 
wire. 

"Nobody  said  anything  while  we  waited 
for  the  connection.  I  patted  the  Chief 
while  she  sniffled,  and  the  old  man  patted 
Dumb-Bell  while  he  snored.  It  was  quite 
a  tableau.    At  last  the  bell  rang. 

•"Hello  I'  said  the  old  man.  'Is  that 
you,  Alfred?  This  is  Mr.  Parmalee.* 
Think  that  over  for  a  moment  I  The  presi- 
dent of  Midland  Iron  was  Alfred  and 
that  old  scarecrow  was  Mr.  Parmalee! 
'Alfred,'  he  said,  *do  you  know  anything 
about  a  contract  with  the  Gregory  Fur- 
nace Company  for  machining  three-inch 
shells?' 

"Evidently  Warrington  said  he  did.  If 
he  didn't  he  had  a  poor  memory;  I'd  spent 
sixteen  hours  with  him  over  it.  *Well,' 
216 


Dumb 'Bell's  Guest 


said  the  old  man,  'have  a  new  contract 
made  out  at  three-ninety  per  shell,  and 
mail  it  to  Gregory  tomorrow.  Do  you 
understand,  Alfred? ...  All  right.'  Then 
he  rang  off. 

"The  Chief  and  I  were  sitting  there 
gaping.  I  was  wondering  if  I  were  crazy, 
too. 

"The  old  man  coughed  nervously — we 
were  both  staring  at  him — then  he  said, 
'You  see,  it  just  happens  that  I  have  an 
interest  in — er — that  is,  I  own  a  majority 
of  stock  in — er — the  Midland  Iron  Com- 
pany.' Then  he  sneaked  out  of  the  room. 
He  was  frightfully  embarrassed." 

Gregory  tossed  what  was  left  of  his 
cigar  into  the  fire.  We  watched  the  small 
flame  it  made  until  it  flickered  into  a  wisp 
of  smoke. 

The  sound  of  snoring  in  the  bay  win- 
dow ceased.  Dumb-Bell  sat  up  in  his 
15  217 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

chair,  yawned  tremendously,  regarded  us 
all  for  a  moment — and  grinned. 

"Oh,   yes,"   said   Gregory,   "it's  very 
funny — now,'* 


ORDERED  ON 


VI 

ORDERED  ON 

THE  wood  fire  leaped  and  crackled, 
and  shot  small  embers  out  upon  the 
bricks.  The  embers  changed  from  white 
to  red,  from  red  to  gray,  from  gray  to 
sullen  black.  Their  lives  were  short.  One 
moment  glowing,  brilliant — dead  smudges 
on  the  hearth  the  next.  Dumb-Bell 
watched  them. 

It  was  the  first  time  Dumb-Bell  had 
noticed  the  embers.  His  chair  had  always 
stood  in  the  bay  window  across  the  big 
room.  That  day  they  had  moved  it  nearer 
the  fire.    He  wondered  why. 

They  had  moved  the  leather-covered 
stool,  too.  He  blinked  down  at  it.  The 
leather-covered  stool  had  stood,  for  the 
221 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

past  six  months,  just  in  front  of  his  chair. 
He  had  disliked  it  at  first  because  it  was 
strange.  He  disliked  strange  things  that 
interfered  with  his  habits.  It  had  been 
his  habit,  until  the  last  year,  to  get  into  his 
chair  by  a  single  easy  bound.  Then  he 
had  found  it  better  to  put  his  forepaws  in 
the  chair  seat,  pull  one  hind  leg  up,  and 
then  the  other. 

One  day  he  had  hunted  quail  from  a 
pink  dawn  to  a  red  eve.  They  had  taken 
out  as  his  brace  mate  young  Susan  White- 
stone,  who  was  something  of  a  flibber- 
tigibbet. The  perverse  creature  had  in- 
sisted on  flying  to  far  dim  thickets  in  her 
searchings,  leaving  nearer  cover  unex- 
plored. It  was  that  way  with  the  young 
— success  was  always  just  over  the  hill. 
Dumb-Bell  had  humored  the  silly  thing, 
had  even  been  caught  up  by  her  infec- 
tious, sweeping  flights.  He  had  run  with- 
222 


Ordered  On 


out  restraint,  without  dignity,  with  aban- 
don. 

.  Not  as  he  had  run  in  those  all-conquer- 
ing days  when  his  sobriquet  was  the  White 
Ghost ;  but  he  had  held  the  flitting  Susan, 
even,  for  a  time,  and  there  was  this  differ- 
ence between  them:  now  and  then  she 
would  flash  blithely  past  a  bit  of  cover, 
without  a  thought,  without  a  sign;  and 
then  he  would  come  plunging  by,  weary 
in  heels  and  heart,  but  with  a  champion*s 
nose.  One  instant  he  was  in  his  stride, 
the  next  moveless,  high-headed,  tense. 
Within  the  thicket,  perhaps  a  hundred 
feet  away,  was  a  breathless  huddle  of 
brown  feathers  and  close-held  wings! 

And  then  the  airy  Susan  would  come 
creeping  back,  awed  by  the  splendor  of 
his  pose,  vaguely  troubled  by  the  thought 
that^  flit  as  she  might  for  all  her  days, 
such  miracles  were  not  for  her, 
223 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

That  night,  when  Dumb-Bell  put  his 
forepaws  in  the  chair  his  hind  legs,  for 
some  reason,  refused  to  follow.  He  had 
tried  to  lift  them  up,  his  toes  scratching 
on  the  slippery  leather,  until  his  mistress 
came  and  helped  him  into  the  chair. 

Limping  in  from  the  garden  next  day 
Dumb-Bell  had  found  the  stool  before  his 
chair.  He  waited  for  someone  to  move  it. 
No  one  did,  and  he  decided  to  climb  into 
the  chair  despite  it.  He  found  the  stool 
was  like  a  step.  By  using  it  he  could 
walk  right  into  his  chair.  He  tried  it  sev- 
eral times  to  make  sure.  It  worked  per- 
fectly every  time.  From  then  on  he  liked 
the  stool. 

And  now  they  had  moved  his  chair  and 
his  stool  nearer  tfie  fire.  It  had  seemed  a 
little  chilly  in  the  bay  window  the  last  few 
nights.  It  must  be  a  very  cold  fall.  It 
was  certainly  nice  and  warm  here  by  the 
224 


Ordered  On 


fire.  And  then  he  could  watch  the  em- 
bers. 

He  was  alone  with  the  fire  and  his 
thoughts.  He  could  hear  a  faint  murmur 
of  voices  coming  from  the  dining-room. 
The  people  were  about  the  pleasant,  glis- 
tening table.  It  might  be  well  to  go  in 
there  and  stand  by  his  mistress.  Then, 
just  before  Griggs  took  her  plate  away, 
her  fork  would  come  stealing  down  quite 
quietly  with  something  delicious  on  the 
end.  He  would  be  careful  not  to  let  his 
teeth  click  on  the  silver  tines.  Not  that 
it  made  any  difference  who  heard,  but  they 
had  done  it  that  way  for  years. 

It  had  begun  when  he  was  always  hun- 
gry and  inclined  to  beg,  and  perhaps 
annoy  the  guests,  and  rules  had  been 
made.  Nowadays  he  was  never  very  hun- 
gry and  guests  were  never  annoyed  at 
anything  he  did.  They  were,  as  a  matter 
225 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

of  fact,  quite  flattered  if  he  noticed  them 
at  all. 

Dumb-Bell  raised  his  head  from  his 
paws,  stirred,  and  glanced  at  the  door.  It 
was  a  long  way  to  the  dining-room,  and 
he  was  not  in  the  least  hungry.  He  had 
left  three  pieces  of  liver  untouched  on  his 
plate  in  the  butler's  pantry.  .  .  . 

He  was  still  watching  the  embers  when 
the  people  came  in  from  dinner — ^his  mas- 
ter and  mistress  and  that  old  man  named 
Parmalee.  Dumb-Bell  gave  the  two 
thumps  on  the  chair  seat  which  hospitality 
required,  and  Mr.  Parmalee  came  and 
scratched  him  back  of  the  ears. 

It  was  pleasant,  this  scratching.  He 
closed  his  eyes.  The  voices  and  the  snap- 
ping of  the  fire  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 
At  last  they  drifted  away  altogether,  and 
he  was  in  a  queer  thicket  in  which  quail 
rose  with  a  whir  at  every  step  he  took  but 
226 


Ordered  On 


gave  no  scent,  although  he  tried  and  tried 
to  smell  them.  Why  he,  Champion  Brook- 
field  Dumb-Bell,  was  flushing  birds!  It 
was  horrible.  He  twitched  and  whined 
in  his  sleep. 

While  he  slept  the  people  talked. 

"Jim,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  "I've  come 
here  this  time  to  tell  you  something.  I've 
discovered  the  Happy  Hunting  Ground. 
I  want  to  take  you  there." 

The  master  of  Brookfield  looked  at  him 
inquiringly. 

"I  not  only  discovered  it,  I  made  it," 
Mr.  Parmalee  went  on.  "No,  I  can't  say 
that.  Come  to  think  of  it,  the  Good  Lord 
did  most  of  the  work.  I  just  put  on  the 
finishing  touches.    It's  in  Minnesota." 

"Are  there  quail  up  there?"  asked 
Gregory  doubtfully.  "I've  understood 
not.    Nothing  to  speak  of,  at  any  rate." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee.  "Bob- 
227 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

white  must  have  his  comforts — ^his  corn 
and  his  ragweed  and  his  wheat.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  he'll  get  there,  but  not  now. 
The  wilderness  frightens  him.  We'll  hunt 
a  braver  bird,  king  of  them  all." 

"Ruffed  grouse!"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield  quickly. 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  and  then 
he  explained.  He  owned,  it  seemed,  a 
big  tract  of  timber  land  in  northern  Min- 
nesota. He  coughed  slightly  as  he  ad- 
mitted it — the  things  he  owned  embar- 
rassed Mr.  Parmalee.  He  had  gone  up 
there  last  year.  He  wanted  to  see  the 
great  pines  tremble,  sway,  and  crash  down 
before  the  deep  biting  axes  and  snoring 
saws  of  the  lumberjacks.  He  had  seen 
this,  and  other  things.  In  particular  he 
had  seen,  or  rather  heard,  the  flight  of  in- 
numerable ruffed  grouse  getting  up  be- 
fore him  in  the  thickets. 
228 


Ordered  On 


It  was  all  but  impenetrable  cover,  much 
too  thick  for  wing  shooting;  and  yet  here 
was  a  country  filled  with  the  greatest  of 
all  game  birds.  He  thought  about  it  for 
several  days. 

In  any  direction  he  pushed  his  way 
through  second-growth  pine,  silver  birch, 
alders,  and  a  riot  of  bushes  and  vines, 
a  thrilling  roar  of  wings  was  all  about 
him. 

One  night  he  talked  with  the  logging 
superintendent  who  recommended  and 
sent  for  one  Red  Harry,  log  boss  extraor- 
dinary. He  came,  a  big  red  man,  as  thick 
through  the  chest  as  one  of  the  pines  he 
smote,  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  Mr. 
Parmalee  told  him  what  he  wanted. 
Could  it  be  done? 

"Sure,  anything  kin  be  done;  but  it'll 
cost—" 

"That's  my  part  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Par- 
229 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookjield 

malee,  who  had  taken  stock  of  his  man 
and  was  never  embarrassed  when  it  came 
to  large  affairs. 

Red  Harry  turned  and  spat  unhur- 
riedly through  the  doorway.  "I'll  get  a 
hundred  rough-necks  from  Brainerd. 
You  want  some  of  the  stuff  left  standin', 
an'  brush  heaps  made  every  little  bit. 
Have  I  got  you  right?" 

"Exactly.  If  you  thin  it  too  much  the 
birds  will  leave,  and  they  like  brush 
heaps." 

"Twenty  square  miles?" 

"About  that,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee;  "and 
a  good,  tight,  four-room  cabin." 

"All  set,"  said  Red  Harry,  and 
slouched  into  the  night. 

The  master  and  mistress  of  Brookfield 
listened  to  further  deeds  of  Red  Harry 
and  his  rough-necks.  The  eyes  of  the  mis- 
tress of  Brookfield  widened  at  this  whole- 
230 


Ordered  On 


sale  conversion  of  the  wilderness  into  a 
sliooting  preserve. 

"And  so,"  Mr.  Parmalee  wound  up, 
"the  Happy  Hunting  Ground  is  ready." 
He  turned  to  his  hostess.  "I  hoped  you 
would  come,  too.  It  will  be  a  little  rough, 
but—" 

"I'd  love  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory.  "And 
Jim  will  go  quite  mad." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Gregory,  "I 
haven't  a  dog  that  will  do.  My  stuff  is 
all  too  fast  for  grouse.  I'll  talk  to  Peter 
tomorrow  though  and  see  what  he's  got." 

But  Peter  tilted  his  hat  over  one  eye 
and  scratched  the  back  of  his  head  when 
asked,  next  morning,  to  produce  a  grouse 
dog.  He  let  his  eye  rove  down  the  line  of 
runways  and  back  to  the  master  of  Brook- 
field.  A  grouse  dog  must  be  a  plodding, 
creeping,  silent  worker.  A  field  trial  ken- 
nel was  not  the  place  to  look  for  one. 
231 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookfield 

"Old  Jane  Aus'in,  now,  might  do,"  said 
Peter  at  last.  "She  always  was  sly  like, 
an'  what  with  age  an'  whelpin'  an'  one 
thing  an'  other  she  might  stay  around 
where  you  could  get  a  look  at  her  now 
and  then." 

"All  right,"  said  the  master  of  Brook- 
field  promptly,  "we'll  take  her  along." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Peter.  "I  ain't 
told  you  yet.  She's  'eavy  in  whelp  to 
Beau  Brummell." 

"Oh  I"  said  the  master  of  Brookfield. 
"Well,  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first?" 

"'Ow  can  I  say  it  all  at  once?"  Peter 
wanted  to  know.  "You  come  'ere  askin' 
me  this  an'  askin'  me  that,  an'  I'm  just 
tellin'  you."  He  spent  a  moment  in 
thought.  "Ole  Bang  'e's  gone,"  he  saiH 
meditatively.  "Now  the  Beau  'imself 
might  do.  'E's  slowed  down  to  nothin' 
an'  'e's  got  a  grand  nose — " 
232 


Ordered  On 


"Just  the  thing,"  said  the  master  of 
Brookfield.  "We'll  give  him  a  trial  at 
any  rate.    What  else  have  you  got?'* 

"'Old  your  *orses  a  bit,"  said  Peter. 
"'Is  rheumatism  'as  been  so  bad  'ere  late- 
ly 'e  can't  'ardly  get  out  of  'is  kennel." 

The  master  of  Brookfield  got  out  his 
cigarette  case  and  seated  himself  on  the 
kennel  house  doorstep.  There  followed 
a  gloomy  silence.  It  was  broken  by  Peter 
at  last. 

"Lord!"  he  exploded  suddenly,  "I 
never  thought."  He  folded  his  arms  and 
directed  a  reproachful  eye  at  the  master 
of  Brookfield.  "You  come  'ere  askin'  me 
for  a  grouse  dog,"  he  said.  "Why  didn't 
you  look  around  afore  you  come?"  He 
nodded  toward  the  house.  "What  about 
*i'm'?'*  he  inquired.  "With  all  the  brains 
an'  all  the  nose  in  the  world,  an'  'is  speed 
gone  from  'im.  Take  'im  with  you  up 
16  283 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

there,  an'  if  *e  flushes  a  single  bird,  once 
*e  knows  what  they're  like,  you  can  'ave 
my  wages  for  a  year." 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  said  the  mas- 
ter of  Brookfield,  brightening.  "It's  queer 
I  didn't  think  of  it.  And  yet,  when  you 
consider  everything — "  He  broke  off, 
overwhelmed  by  visions  of  the  past  in 
which  a  white  speck  swept  distant  hori- 
zons while  horsemen  cursed  him  lovingly 
and  galloped  after. 

"It  is  funny  now,  ain't  it?"  said  Peter. 
"'Untin'  grouse  with  'im.    Lord  save  us  I" 

The  pines  had  done  it.  At  first  Dumb- 
Bell  had  suspected  the  loons  which 
laughed  wildly  from  somewhere  out  on 
the  black  mystery  of  the  lake.  But  it 
wasn't  the  loons ;  they,  at  least,  were  alive. 
It  was  the  pines,  the  brooding  pines — and 
the  silence.  Always  before,  wherever  he 
234 


Ordered  On 


had  gone,  there  had  been  noises,  reassur- 
ing noises.  Early  in  the  morning,  like 
this,  birds  should  chirp  and  roosters  crow; 
dogs  give  tongue  and  cattle  rumble  a 
greeting  to  the  dawn.  Horses  might 
nicker  and  stamp.  Sheep  quaver  to  one 
another.  And,  best  of  all,  there  would  be 
human  voices,  or  a  laugh,  or  a  song,  or  a 
whistle.  And  the  trees,  where  these  things 
happened,  rustled  comfortably  and  seemed 
to  take  an  interest. 

All  this  was  far  away,  and  Dumb- 
Bell  had  the  shivers,  and  the  pines  had 
done  it.  He  had  heard  them  all  night. 
When  the  wind  blew,  the  pines  made  a 
noise.  He  did  not  like  that  noise.  The 
silence  in  which,  no  matter  how  hard  he 
listened,  nothing  could  be  heard  was  al- 
most better. 

Although  the  kitchen  fire  was  banked 
and  he  lay  on  a  shooting  coat  close  to  the 
285 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Broohjield 

stove  he  had  begun  to  shiver  as  the  noise 
went  on.  He  had  hoped  that  when  it 
stopped  he  would  stop  shivering,  but  the 
wind  had  died  out  and  the  noise  had 
stopped,  and  still  he  shivered.  He  could 
see  the  pines  now  through  the  cabin  win- 
dow, black  and  still  against  the  sky, 
plainer  every  minute  as  the  light  grew. 
So  many  of  them!  There  were  a  few 
pines  at  Brookfield.  There  had  been  a 
lot  of  them  on  one  side  of  the  course  when 
he  won  the  Continental.  He  had  not 
shivered  at  them  then.  He  had  just  run, 
with  hundreds  of  men  watching,  and 
smashed  into  his  bevy  finds  and  gone  on, 
while  the  men  yelled. 

But  the  pines  down  there  were  smaller 
and  not  so  black  and  proud,  and  he  had 
been  wild  with  excitement,  for  of  course 
he  was  winning,  he  always  won,  and  he 
knew  the  men  would  crowd  about  him 
236 


Ordered  On 


later  and  talk  about  him  in  hushed  voices 
while  he  pretended  not  to  hear  what  they 
said. 

There  had  been  so  many  people  that 
day.  Here  there  were  so  few.  His  mas- 
ter and  mistress  and  Mr.  Parmalee  and 
the  cook  man.  That  was  all.  And  mil- 
lions of  pines.  Dumb-Bell  shivered  and 
watched  them  through  the  window,  his 
head  between  his  paws. 

They  called  this  place  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground;  but  Dumb-Bell  was 
not  happy  as  he  lay  there,  although  he 
had  hunted  every  day  since  they  came. 

Of  course  it  was  not  in  the  least  like 
quail  hunting — nothing  w^as  like  that! 
You  went  as  fast  as  you  could  when  you 
hunted  quail,  and  saw  the  country  for 
miles  and  miles.    It  was  glorious! 

But  they  wouldn't  let  him  do  that  any 
more,  and  these  new  birds  were  interest- 
287 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

ing.  You  must  go  very  quietly,  and  at 
the  first  faint  scent  slow  to  a  walk  and 
then  to  a  creep  and  then  to  a  crawl,  until 
something  told  you  you  could  go  no 
farther. 

Dumb-Bell  had  flushed  two  grouse  that 
first  day  before  he  had  understood  how 
they  would  burst  out  of  the  cover  and 
roar  off  when  he  was  fifty  feet  away.  His 
master  had  said  "Careful"  to  him  re- 
proachfully, and  Dumb-Bell  had  grinned 
in  an  agony  of  remorse.  After  that  no 
more  birds  were  flushed.  He  just  crept 
about  and  found  them  in  every  direction, 
while  his  master  and  Mr.  Parmalee  shot, 
and  his  mistress  called  him  silly  names 
and  even  hugged  him,  now  and  then,  when 
he  came  back  with  the  dead  bird  unruffled 
in  his  mouth. 

He  had  disapproved  of  this  hugging 
business.  He  was  hunting,  and  even 
238 


Ordered  On 


though  he  went  slowly  and  was  stiff  for 
some  reason,  when  night  came  he  was  still 
Champion  Brookfield  Dumb-Bell  at  his 
work  and  not  a  "precious  lamb." 

This  was  the  dawn  of  their  last  day  in 
the  Happy  Hunting  Ground.  Some  of 
the  things  were  packed  already.  The 
wagons  would  come  tomorrow;  and 
Dumb-Bell  was  glad. 

The  wagons  would  take  them  for  miles 
through  the  pines.  But  the  train  would 
come  along,  and  after  a  while  the  pines 
would  not  stand  in  towering  ranks  on  both 
sides  of  the  track,  and  he  would  stop 
shivering. 

He  lay  and  watched  the  pines  until  the 
cook  man  came  and  gave  the  stove  its 
breakfast.  Dumb-Bell  wondered  why  it 
always  ate  wood  instead  of  the  good- 
smelling  things  that  were  put  on  top  of  it. 

Presently  his  mistress  called  good 
239 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

morning  to  Mr.  Parmalee  and  came  into 
the  kitchen,  and  the  last  day  in  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground  had  begun. 

His  mistress  stayed  at  the  cabin  that 
day  to  finish  packing,  and  he  and  his  mas- 
ter and  Mr.  Parmalee  started  out.  As 
they  were  leaving,  his  mistress  gave  him 
a  hug  and  felt  him  shiver,  and  thought 
he  was  cold. 

But  his  master  said,  "He'll  warm  up 
when  he  gets  to  moving.  Won't  you,  old 
snoozer?" 

Dumb-Bell  grinned,  and  galloped  stiffly 
to  a  small  thicket.  He  skirted  it  with 
care  to  show  that  he  was  ready.  ...  It 
was  much  better  to  hunt  and  forget  the 
pines. 

He  did  forget  them  all  morning  long. 
Early  in  the  day  his  master  made  a  won- 
derful double,  both  of  them  cross  shots, 
and  soon  after  that  Dumb-Bell  pointed  a 
240 


Ordered  On 


live  bird  a  long  way  off,  with  a  dead  bird 
in  his  mouth,  and  Mr.  Parmalee — well,  it 
wasn't  exactly  hugging,  but  it  was  near  it. 

They  ate  lunch  in  a  small  clearing 
where  the  low  gray  sky  seemed  to  rest  on 
the  tops  of  the  pine  trees.  Dumb-Bell 
ate  his  two  sandwiches  slowly,  and  stared 
at  it. 

There  was  something  about  the  sky  he 
did  not  like.  As  he  watched  it  the  shivers 
came  back,  and  he  was  glad  when  lunch 
was  over  and  he  could  go  to  work 
again. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  although  he  was 
working  as  hard  as  he  could,  he  began 
to  shiver  worse  than  ever,  and  suddenly 
he  knew.  ,  ,  . 

It  was  not  the  pine§  that  had  made  him 

shiver.     It  was  something  else.     It  was 

something  that  was  coming.    It  would  be 

here  soon  now.    It  had  been  coming  all 

241 


Dumb  'Bell  of  Brookfield 

night.  The  pines  had  been  telling  him. 
Why,  perhaps  they  were  not  so  proud,  so 
aloof,  as  they  had  seemed !  Perhaps  they 
really  cared  like  the  friendly  trees  at 
Brookfield. 

This  thing  that  was  coming  was  in  the 
sky.  In  the  gray  sky  that  was  growing 
dark  now — and  the  pines  were  beginning 
to  talk  about  it  again. 

Dumb-Bell  stopped  hunting,  and  stared 
into  the  north.  As  he  stared  his  eyes 
changed,  his  soft,  kindly,  setter  eyes. 
They  filled  with  green  lights.  Those  from 
which  he  sprang,  centuries  and  centuries 
before,  had  fled  and  died  before  this  thing, 
coming  out  of  the  north,  and  the  sleeping 
wolf  within  him  was  awake  and  was 
afraid. 

"Getting  pretty  dark,  isn't  it?"  said  the 
master  of  Brookfield.  "Let's  hunt  this 
piece  out  and  break  for  camp.  We're 
242 


Ordered  On 


going  to  have  a  storm  I  think.  Dumb- 
Bell!     Go  on,  old  man!" 

At  the  wor  Js  Dumb-Bell  turned.  Re- 
bellion was  in  his  heart.  He  would  not 
go  on.  He  would  put  his  tail  between  his 
legs  and  run.  He  would  run  to  where  the 
stove  was  that  ate  wood. 

This  tall  man  who  said  "Go  on,"  who 
was  he?  Dumb-Bell  looked  at  him  wildly, 
and  their  eyes  met  .  .  .  Dumb-Bell 
grinned,  whined,  and  started — not  for  the 
stove  and  safety;  he  went  carefully  to- 
ward a  distant  brush  heap.  There  might 
be  a  grouse  in  there,  and  the  tall  man,  his 
man,  in  the  old  tan  shooting  coat  which 
he  had  slept  on  so  many  times,  had 
ordered  him  to  find  it. 

Yes,  there  was  a  grouse  in  the  brush 

heap.    Dumb-Bell  slowed  to  a  creep  and 

then  to  a  crawl,  until  something  told  him 

he  could  go  no  farther.    Then  he  stopped, 

243 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

his  eyes  no  longer  green  and  shifting. 
They  were  warm,  faithful,  eager — ^the 
eyes  of  Champion  Brookfield  Dumb-Bell 
on  point. 

And  then,  with  one  last  wailing  shriek 
from  the  pines,  the  thing  that  had  been 
coming,  that  had  made  him  shiver  so,  was 
there.  Dumb-Bell  did  not  move.  His 
fear,  the  fear  of  slinking  ancestors,  was 
gone.  What  if  there  was  a  roar  that 
deafened  him !  What  if  it  was  as  dark  as 
night!  What  if  he  could  scarcely  breathe 
for  the  smothering  ice  particles  that  stung 
his  muzzle  and  filled  his  eyes  and  his  nos- 
trils! The  years  had  thinned  his  blood 
and  stiffened  his  limbs,  but  his  nose,  which 
was  his  soul,  they  could  not  touch.  It 
was  the  nose  of  a  champion  still,  and  wind 
and  dark  and  snow  could  not  prevail 
against  it — ^there  was  a  grouse  in  the 
brush  heap. 

244 


Ordered  On 


A  blizzard  was  a  terrible  thing.  The 
pines  had  moaned  all  night  about  it.  It 
was  here  now,  roaring  and  biting,  all  but 
lifting  him  off  his  feet.  Still — there  was 
a  grouse  in  the  brush  heap.  You  couldn't 
change  that. 

The  wind  was  the  worst.  It  was  so 
hard  to  hold  himself  erect,  and  he  must  do 
that,  whatever  happened.  He  was  on 
point,  and  champions  pointed  with  a  high 
head  and  level  tail. 

If  he  moved,  the  grouse  would  flush, 
and  he  never  flushed  birds.  Why,  long 
ago,  when  he  was  a  tiny  puppy  and  they 
called  him  the  runt  and  were  ashamed 
of  him,  he  never  flushed  birds.  He  had 
pointed  sparrows  when  they  kept  him 
alone  day  after  day  in  the  runway.  Of 
course  no  one  knew  he  was  pointing  and 
no  one  came  to  flush  the  sparrows.  They 
would  hop  about  in  the  runway  for  a  long 
245 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

time — so  long  that  his  legs  would  begin 
to  trenible  and  his  back  would  ache,  and 
someone  should  have  come — but  no  one 
ever  did. 

It  was  like  that  now,  only  worse.  The 
wind  was  so  cold.  The  winds  were  all 
much  colder,  lately.  This  one  seemed  to 
cut  right  into  his  chest  as  he  held  his  head 
high  against  it.  His  hind  legs  were  going 
back  on  him,  too.  They  were  beginning 
to  let  him  down  a  little.  He  must 
straighten  up  somehow. 

Why  didn't  they  come?  He  was  so 
cold,  so  very  cold.  If  he  could  change 
his  position  it  would  help  his  legs.  They 
felt  numb  and  queer.  He  felt  queer  all 
over.  But  there  was  a  grouse  in  the  brush 
heap.  They  would  come  and  flush  it  soon, 
now. 

They  had  better  hurry.  He  could  not 
hold  his  head  up  much  longer.  It  was  not 
246 


Ordered  On 


the  wind,  the  wind  was  growing  warmer, 
ahnost  like  summer,  but  he  was  sleepy. 
That  was  queer.  He  had  never  felt  sleepy 
on  point  before.  But  then  he  had  worked 
hard  today  and  he  had  not  slept  well  last 
night  because  of  the  shivers.  He  would 
sleep  better  tonight,  much  better.  Why, 
he  could  go  to  sleep  this  minute.  The 
wind  wouldn't  hurt  him.  The  wind  was 
his  friend.  It  had  blown  the  snow  all 
over  him,  and  it  was  nice  warm  snow.  It 
packed  itself  under  his  chest.  He  could 
even  rest  a  little  weight  on  it  and  help 
his  legs. 

But  they  were  gone  away,  his  legs. 
Back  to  Brookfield,  perhaps.  He  must 
go,  too,  back  to  Brookfield.  It  was  bright 
and  cheerful  there.  And  always  there 
were  sounds  that  he  knew,  nice  sounds — 
not  like  the  pines  and  the  loons. 

He  would  come  to  the  big  gates  first 
247 


Dumb -Bell  of  Broohfield 

and  then  he  would  leave  the  drive  and  cut 
across  the  lawn  toward  the  lights  of  the 
house  shining  through  the  trees.  He 
would  scratch  on  the  front  door  and  some- 
one would  let  him  in,  and  Peter  would  be 
glad  to  see  him,  and  so  would  his  chair, 
his  own  chair  near  the  fire.  And  then — 
But  there  was  a  grouse  in  the  brush  heap! 
He  had  almost  forgotten  .  .  .  No,  he 
couldn't  leave  just  now.  He  must  stay 
a  little  longer,  alone  in  the  dark  in  the 
nice  warm  snow. 

The  snow  was  getting  higher  about  him 
all  the  time.  Perhaps  it  would  cover  him 
up  after  a  while.  He  was  not  very  big. 
They  had  called  him  the  runt  long  ago  . . . 
He  had  never  flushed  birds,  though,  even 
then.  And  now,  although  his  master 
called  him  old  snoozer,  he  was  Champion 
Brookfield  Dumb-Bell,  with  his  picture 
in  the  papers,  and  there  was  a  grouse  in 
248 


Ordered  On 


the   brush  heap!     A  grouse — in — the — 
brush — heap  .  .  , 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  raised  her 
gun.    "All  ready,  Tom,"  she  said. 

The  cook  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door 
and  let  it  swing  open  a  scant  foot.  There 
was  a  whistling  shriek,  the  room  was  filled 
with  a  vortex  of  snow,  both  lamps  went 
out,  and  the  cook  threw  his  weight  against 
the  door  until  the  latch  clicked  in  its 
socket.  It  was  done  in  five  seconds,  prac- 
tice had  made  him  perfect;  but  a  tongue 
of  flame  had  leaped  out  of  the  door  as 
the  twelve-gauge  spoke  in  an  abrupt  yelp 
that  just  managed  to  rise  above  the  voice 
of  the  storm. 

The  cook  lit  the  lamps  again.     Mrs. 

Gregory  dropped  the  gun  butt  to  the 

floor  and  felt  the  muscles  of  her  right  arm. 

She  was  shooting  three  and  a  quarter 

"  249 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookfield 

drams  of  nitro.  Her  own  little  twenty- 
gauge  could  not  have  been  heard  to  the 
edge  of  the  clearing.  Her  arm  and  shoul- 
der were  bruised  to  a  throbbing  ache. 

She  stood  at  the  door  listening  for  a 
time,  then  she  broke  the  gun  and  slipped 
a  shell  in  the  right  barrel.  "All  ready, 
Tom?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

This  time  the  heavy  charge  made  her 
stagger  and  forced  an  "Oh!"  of  pain 
through  her  clenched  teeth. 

The  cook  reached  for  the  gun.  "You 
can't  do  that  no  more,"  he  said.  "It'll 
tear  the  arm  off  of  you," 

"I  must,"  she  said.  "I  can't  hold  the 
door.  If  the  lamp  blows  over  again  it 
might  explode." 

"I'll  hold  her  or  bust  a  lung,"  said  the 
cook,  "an'  shoot  with  one  hand." 

Mrs.  Gregory  drew  the  gun  away  and 
250 


Ordered  On 


gave  the  cook  a  white  smile.  "You're  a 
good  man,"  she  said  with  a  nod.  "When 
this  is  over  you  must  come  back  with  us 
to—    What  was  that?" 

The  cook  listened  intently.  He  heard 
what  he  had  heard  for  the  past  hour,  the 
shriek  of  the  wind  and  the  rattle  of  ice 
particles  against  the  window. 

But  the  mistress  of  Brookfield  was  a 
woman,  and  women  listen  with  more  than 
ears. 

"Open  the  door!"  she  cried.  "Quick, 
quick!" 

The  cook  obeyed.  For  an  instant  the 
lamplight  cut  a  yellow  square  a  few  yards 
into  the  blackness  before  the  door.  It 
was  filled  with  a  myriad  particles  of  hiss- 
ing snow.  These  gave  place  to  a  stagger- 
ing figure  that  carried  another  figure  in 
its  arms.    Then  the  lamps  blew  out  again. 

When  they  were  lighted  a  man  of  ice 
251 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

stood  in  the  room.  He  crackled  and 
tinkled  when  he  moved,  but  he  had  the 
voice  of  the  master  of  Brookfield. 

"Glad  you  fired,"  he  croaked.  "I'd 
been  hoping  you  would."  He  looked 
down  at  the  quiet  figure  he  carried. 
"Come  and  get  him,  Tom.  I  can't  unbend 
my  arms." 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  did  not  ex- 
plain that  she  had  been  firing  for  an  hour 
or  more.  She  flew  to  the  medicine  case, 
then  to  the  kitchen,  then  back  with  a 
steaming  kettle.  It  was  not  until  Mr. 
Parmalee  stirred  beneath  the  blankets  a 
few  moments  later,  then  opened  his  eyes 
and  muttered  her  name,  that  she  flew  to 
the  master  of  Brookfield  and  asked  a 
question. 

"Where,"  she  said,  "is  Dumb-Befl?" 

The  master  of  Brookfield  sat  in  an  un- 
heated  room  with  his  hands  in  a  dishpan 
252 


Ordered  On 


filled  with  snow.  His  face,  despite  him, 
was  twisted  with  pain.  But  the  pain  in 
his  eyes  as  she  met  them  was  not  physical. 
It  was  deeper  and  more  lasting  than  the 
small  agony  of  frozen  fingers. 

"I  ordered  him  on,"  he  said,  "just  be- 
fore it  hit  us.  I  looked  as  long  as  I 
dared,  and  fired  and  whistled.  I  thought 
he'd  come  back  here." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  intaking 
of  the  breath.  She  returned  to  the  main 
room  and  picked  up  the  twelve-gauge. 
She  picked  the  cook  up  bodily  with  her 
eyes  and  set  him  at  the  door,  daring  him 
with  the  same  look  to  mention  her  arm 
and  shoulder. 

"All  ready,  Tom,"  she  said.  "He'll 
come  to  the  gun  if  he  hears  it." 

She  fired  until  her  blue-black  arm  re- 
fused to  lift  the  twelve-gauge  any  longer. 
Then  she  took  a  camp  stool  close  to  the 
253 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

door  and  sat  there,  waiting — listening  for 
a  whine  or  a  scratch  that  never  came. 


When  a  grayness  appeared  at  the  win- 
dows at  last,  the  outside  world  was  still 
in  a  shrieking,  whirling  frenzy.  But  an 
hour  later  the  storm  swept  away  to  the 
south  as  abruptly  as  it  had  come,  and  a 
red  sun  was  climbing  a  salmon  sky  above 
the  snow-bowed  pines. 

Beneath  the  pines  the  drifted  snow  was 
blue,  but  in  the  clearings  it  was  a  daz- 
zling, shimmering  pink  which  crept  up 
the  pines  themselves,  changing  them  to 
lavender  plumes  filled  with  violet  shad- 
ows. 

Not  a  breath  of  wind  remained.  The 
pines  were  only  painted  on  a  painted  sky. 
The  pink  snow,  too,  was  painted.  The 
whole  wilderness  had  become  unreal.  It 
was  too  scenic,  too  theatrical  to  be  true, 
254 


Ordered  On 


and  Mrs.  Gregory  gasped  as  she  stepped 
into  it. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  "this  isn't  the  world, 
is  it?  There  never  were  such  colors  in  the 
world  before." 

The  master  of  Brookfield  squinted  at 
the  blushing  snow,  the  unbelievable  sky, 
and  the  still  miracle  of  the  pines  with  their 
impossible  shadows. 

"Why,  no,"  he  said,  at  last.  "It  isn't 
the  world.  It's — the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground,  don't  you  remember?" 

At  this  she  looked  at  him. 

"Ah,  little  Chief!"  he  said.  And  one 
of  his  bandaged  hands  fumbled  for  one 
of  hers,  and  found  it,  and  so  they  set  out 
with  Tom  ahead  breaking  trail  and  Mr. 
Parmalee  waving  feebly  from  the  door- 
way. 

They  floundered  on,  peering  into  thick- 
ets, eying  small  mounds  of  snow  fearfully 
255 


Dumb  -Bell  of  Brookfield 

but  passing  them  without  examination. 
They  would  not  admit,  just  yet,  that  one 
of  those  innocent  mounds  could  have  a 
dreadful  secret.  Now  and  then  Tom 
would  fire  into  the  air,  and  they  would 
stop  and  listen  to  the  echoes  of  the  shot 
crashing  among  the  pines.  They  called, 
of  course,  and  the  master  of  Brookfield 
whistled,  but  the  clearings  were  filled  with 
snow  and  sunlight  and  the  thickets  with, 
snow  and  shadows,  and  that  was  all. 

At  last  they  found  something.  It  was 
a  gun  standing  against  a  tree. 

"It's  mine,"  said  Gregory.  "Now  I 
know  where  I  am." 

He  broke  open  the  gun,  took  out  the 
shells,  and  blew  the  snow  from  the  bar- 
rels. He  slipped  the  shells  into  the  breech 
automatically,  closed  the  gun,  and  looked 
about  him. 

"We  were  standing  in  the  middle  of 
256 


Ordered  On 


that  clearing,"  he  said,  pointing,  "and  I 
ordered  him  on.  He  went  toward  the 
farther  end — that's  north,  isn't  it,  Tom? 
— and  then  it  hit  us,  and  I  never  saw  him 
after  that.  Chief,  you  stand  here  to  give 
us  our  bearings  and  we'll  make  a  circle 
around  you.  You  go  one  way,  Tom,  and 
I'll  go  the  other.  We'll  make  the  first 
circle  to  take  in  the  edge  of  the  clearing 
and  widen  for  the  next  when  we  meet." 

The  mistress  of  Brookfield  stood  and 
watched  them  go.  Somehow  it  was  a  com- 
fort to  be  here  where  the  mannie  had  been. 
His  blessed  paws  must  have  pattered  by 
close  to  where  she  was  standing.  She 
knew  exactly  how  he  looked  when  he  went 
by.  He  would  be  so  earnest,  so  intent. 
He  seemed  to  take  on  a  remoteness  when 
at  work  that  shut  her  away  almost  com- 
pletely from  him.  It  was  almost  a  sacri- 
lege to  hug  him  when  he  had  to  come  in 
257 


Dumb -Bell  of  Brookjield 

with  a  dead  bird  and  could  not  avoid  her. 
But  who  could  help  it  when  he  looked  like 
that,  so  proud  and  important! 

If  she  had  only  been  here  yesterday.  If 
she  only  had!  If  it  was  only  now,  this 
minute,  that  he  was  passing  and  she  could 
call  his  name  and  see  by  the  flicker  of  his 
eye  that  he  heard ! 

She  tried  it.  "Dumb-Bell!"  she  said 
softly.  "Mannie!  Oh,  Mannie!"  ...  She 
could  not  see  whether  he  passed  or  not. 
She  could  see  nothing  until  she  found  a 
handkerchief  in  her  sweater  pocket. 

Then,  when  she  could  see  again,  her 
heart  stopped  beating,  for  Tom  was  wav- 
ing to  her  and  calling,  and  she  ran  toward 
him  floundering,  stumbling,  falling  in  the 
snow. 

When  she  had  crossed  the  clearing  and 
saw  what  Tom  was  looking  at  she  gave  a 
cry  of  thankfulness  and  joy.  .  .  .  There 
258 


Ordered  On 


was  the  mannie — alive  I  He  was  standing 
deep  in  the  snow.  He  was  pointing  with 
a  high  head  and  a  level  tail  as  he  always 
did. 

And  then  she  saw  a  look  of  amazement 
in  Tom's  face.  She  came  closer,  and  the 
light  left  her  eyes  as  she  sank  down  on  a 
log  and  covered  them  with  her  hands.  .  .  . 
She  did  not  move  when  the  master  of 
Brookfield  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

Dumb-Bell  was  in  a  small  glade,  just 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  great  black  pine. 
He  seemed  to  be  carved  in  silver,  for  the 
sunlight  flashed  and  twinkled  on  the 
sheath  of  ice  which  covered  him  from  the 
tip  of  his  outstretched  nose  to  the  tip  of 
his  outstretched  tail.  And  if  the  ice  had 
been  enduring  silver,  the  perfection,  the 
certainty  of  his  pose,  could  have  served 
as  a  model  for  all  the  champions  yet  to 
come. 

259 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

They  watched  him  for  awed  moments 
in  a  vast  silence.  And  then  the  silence 
was  broken.  From  a  white  mound  at 
which  he  pointed  there  came  a  sound,  a 
scratching  flutter. 

The  white  mound,  once  a  refuge,  was 
now  an  icy  prison.  Its  occupant  was 
pecking  and  fluttering  to  be  free.  There 
was  a  grouse  in  the  brush  heap! 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Gregory,  and 
then,  "Let  him  out,  Tom;  kick  the  snow 
away!" 

But  the  mistress  of  Brookfield  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "No,  no!"  she  said. 
"No,  no!  He's  held  it  for  you  all  this 
dreadful  night — in  this  horrible  land 
where  he  doesn't  belong  .  .  .  my  mannie, 
my  own  little  mannie!" 

"I  see,"  said  Gregory.  "Good  girl!" 
He  waded  to  the  white  mound,  kicked  the 
snow  away  and  swung  his  foot  against 
260 


Ordered  On 


the  pile  of  brush,  the  ice  tinkling  in  the 
dead  branches. 

The  brush  heap  shivered.  There  was  a 
drumming  of  wings,  a  shower  of  snow, 
and  a  big  cock  grouse  shot  for  the  blue 
above  the  pines.  There  was  a  staccato 
crash,  a  pungent  breath  of  nitro  powder, 
and  still  he  went,  like  a  bronze  rocket, 
straight  for  that  bit  of  sky. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  winked  the 
dimness  from  his  eyes  and  set  his  jaw. 
The  grouse  topped  the  pines  in  a  flashing 
curve.  He  was  gone !  No,  not  quite.  He 
had  spread  his  wings  for  his  sail  over  the 
tree  tops  when  he  crumpled  suddenly  in 
the  air. 

The  master  of  Brookfield  broke  open 
his  smoking  gun  and  looked  at  the  small 
white  statue,  banked  in  snow. 

"Dead  bird!"  he  said.  "Dead  bird,  old 
snoozerl'* 

261 


Dumb 'Bell  of  Brookjield 

But  Champion  Brookfield  Dumb-Bell 
gave  no  sign  that  he  heard.  He  could  no 
longer  stoop  to  a  ruffed  grouse  lying  in 
the  snow.  His  spirit  was  sweeping  like 
the  wind  over  Elysian  Fields  and  flashing 
into  point  after  point  on  celestial  quail. 


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